What Lay Beyond
by Cythwyn
Summary: Victoria, now Azalel, returns to meet her parents... and, yet again, it spirals out of her control. Sequel to Warp Gate.
1. Xarral's World

A/N: Don't worry, I'll finish the other one. But I loved the short story so much that I decided to write a sequel. It's already finished, so no waiting for chapters. Here we go!

What Lay Beyond

The light enfolded them, a pulsating, throbbing glow. Victoria got the sense of traveling at a great speed, whipping through space and time. She held onto Xarral with all her might, gripping onto that vividly-colored cloth. She was aware of one of Xarral's hands, so large it encased her tiny five-year-old body, curving gently around her back.

The intensity of the burning illumination grew; pressuring her eyes and ears, and became so strong that she cried out. As if on cue they were spit out on the other side, and the power of the light disappeared. Victoria's ears were left ringing, and her eyeballs ached. She squeezed them shut and buried her face into Xarral's shoulder, eyes watering, assaulted by an assortment of strange sounds and voices. Unknown birds chirped, feet trotted about cobblestone, and there was a low hum that she couldn't place. Frightened and intimidated, she sought to make herself as small as possible.

"There she is," murmured a voice.

_Yes._

"What a cute little thing!"

"What's her name again?"

_Victoria._

_Who will take care of her? _Asked a different mind-voice.

"We will. I have two sons already; we'll take her in."

Victoria turned to the source of the voices. There was an assortment of strange people—both of her kind and the kind of her friend Xarral. A young couple had come forward. Reluctantly, Xarral began to give her over.

Victoria cried out, grabbing onto his clothes again. No! She didn't want to go with the strangers!

Immediately Xarral moved back, cradling her again in his arms. _No, _he said, voicing her own objection. _I will keep her._

The couple was startled, as was the rest of the crowd. The old Protoss High Templar warrior usually kept to himself, seldom venturing out into the town. It had been a strange miracle that he had volunteered to contact a child—and now he wanted to keep her?

_I have made the first step of communicating with her. I will finish it. I will raise her._

Slowly, the couple moved back.

_Be reasonable, Xarral, _said another, younger Protoss. _You do not know much about Protoss children, and nothing about a Terran child._

_Nevertheless, she shall stay with me._ Xarral turned his back on the others and walked away, in the direction of his little house on the edge of the town, leaving the crowd hanging. A buzz of whispers had started, but Xarral did not listen and did not care.

_Come, little one_, he murmured to the tiny, trembling bundle in his arms. _Be still. You are safe._

Victoria relaxed marginally, and offered a shaky little smile. "Where are we going?" she asked, turning to get more comfortable.

_To my home. You will stay there with me._

"I'm not going back?"

_No._

Victoria sank into incredulous silence for the rest of the way. When they got home, and Xarral gently put her in his bed, she said, "Never?"

_Never, child. Not if you do not wish to._

A smile lit her face, as radiant as the one that she had given him when he had first picked her up. "Are you my new daddy?" she asked.

Xarral paused, thinking. _Yes, _he said slowly. _I am your father. Now sleep._

"Fa-ther," she whispered, eyes closing as if on their own volition. "Father."


	2. Settling In

Victoria awoke the next morning and was confused by the room around her. The bed was enormous; it stretched nearly two feet on either side of her and almost nine feet from the headboard to the footboard. For a moment, she wondered where she was—but, remembering, she smiled and crawled to the edge of the bed. It was four and a half feet above the ground.

She was trying to figure out how to get down without hurting herself when Xarral came in. He was carrying a large cardboard box in which a neighbor had dropped off—"the basic things you need for raising a kid," he'd explained. Seeing Victoria, he put the box down on the bed. _Good morning, little one, _he said.

She beamed up at him. "Good morning," she said.

His eyes narrowed faintly and the bony plates where his mouth would have been pinched, a Protoss smile; he sat beside her. _Come here, _he said, gesturing. Victoria crawled onto his broad lap. Blinking—that wasn't what he had in mind, but it worked—he studied the contents of the box. After a moment's deliberation, he selected a long-handled hair brush and gingerly began working it through the girl's tattered locks.

Victoria relaxed even more, hunching over to give him total access to her head. Once she had brushed her own hair, and had not done a very good job. Now, under Xarral's rough but steady treatment, her long, brown curls began to straighten, dangling down to her waist. "That feels good," she murmured.

_Does it, _he replied. _I would not know._

She peered up at him. "You have hair," she said.

_No. These are nerve cords. They allow me to speak telepathically._

"Te-le-paff-eh-cly?"

_In your mind._ Xarral set her on the floor and stood. _Remove your clothes. I will be back in a moment._ He walked out of the bedroom. Victoria heard water running; eagerly she stripped to the bare skin. How long had it been since she had a real bath? She didn't know how to wash herself. All she knew was to mimic the movements of her mother in the bathtub.

After a moment the Protoss came back and led her to the washroom, where he had filled the tub only halfway to accommodate her tiny body. He lifted her inside, and then took a smaller wooden bucket and dumped the contents over her head. She laughed, raising her arms above her head and splashing the water. Xarral picked up the soap and lathered it, and then did the same to her little head. His claws rasped her scalp.

"Ow," she said. Xarral gentled his large hands, curling his fingers so the points of his blunt claws did not scrape her. When he was done washing her hair, he rinsed her, and then soaked the rest of her body in order to wash that, too.

At last she stood in the vast solid wooden bath with the water up to her knees, finally clean. "I liked that," she said, giggling.

_Indeed._

"Yep!"

_For now, you will have to wear nothing until I receive some clothes. _Xarral stepped back, studying her. _And I will cut your hair also._

"But I like long hair," Victoria complained, lifting her arms to be taken out of the tub.

_When you are old enough to clean yourself, you may grow it out, _he said firmly, and there was no more discussion about it. But when she viewed herself in the mirror, with hair cut to only two inches from her skull, she beamed up at her new father. "I like it," she exclaimed.

_I am glad._ Xarral cleaned up the rest of the hair—all seven inches of it—and threw it away outside. Victoria ran after him. "It's nice and warm out," she said cheerfully.

_It is indeed, _he replied, staring down at her._ We shall go into the town and get you some more clothes,_ he added._ You do not need to wear something to town, yes?_

"Nah. It's warm."

He was thinking of what the townspeople might think if they were to go down there without her having any clothes on, but dismissed the idea. On warm days some parents, both Protoss and Terran, allowed their younger children to parade around naked and no one complained. Victoria should be no different. He picked her up and started the short walk to the little settlement.

Xarral had no idea why he took in the child, just as he had no idea why he had volunteered to contact her. Perhaps it was because of the loneliness he had experienced while by himself. He had lost his family—his mate and his brother—and friends to the Zerg Wars, five hundred years ago, and his newly-made friends to the Great Hybrid Battle, and had been alone ever since. When he was going to give away the child, he had felt a sudden urge to keep her when she had mentally expressed her fear with going with the strange couple. It had overwhelmed him—since he and his mate had never had any time for children (she had been killed in battle by Zerg when she was pregnant), he supposed it was because he had _almost _been a father, then had lost his child and now mourned for another. And when he had first seen her, he knew it had to be—there was a connection between them, as if a faint memory had been stirred.

Besides, he reasoned, he had grown close while talking to the young Terran through their messages.

As Xarral and Victoria walked through the town, a few people stopped them to get a look at the new child. Protoss wondered why he took her in; Terrans cooed over her cuteness.

They entered a little clothing store, run by two men named Walter and K'lore. Xarral had met them before; he usually mended his old clothes, but when some clothing was completely ruined he came to them for more.

"Good morning, Xarral," Walter called as he strode in. "And who's this?"

_My…daughter. She requires clothes._

"No kidding." He gestured for Xarral to put the naked girl down, and took out a little device. "This is a body scanner," he explained to Victoria, who had shrunk up to Xarral's legs. She did not even come up to his first knee. "It'll measure you so I know what size you are."

_It is all right, little one, _the Protoss said. _He will not harm you._

Tentatively she came forward, and Walter knelt to run the scanner across her waist, from shoulder to ankle, and across her chest. He stood. "K'lore!" he called.

_Yes?_

"Could you get me a few size four outfits?"

_Protoss or Terran?_

"For a Terran; a little girl. I need about seven. Yes?" he glanced at Xarral, who nodded. "Yeah; seven." He smiled down at Victoria, then asked the Protoss, "Your _daughter_?"

_Yes. She came from beyond the warp gate._

"Oh… I see." K'lore came from the back of the shop, carrying the asked-for clothes over one arm. "Okay, here we go. Can you dress yourself?"

Victoria nodded shyly, and Walter handed her the first outfit; a bright green jacket and pants with a pink t-shirt. She put them on, and stood quietly under the adults' critical eye.

"I think she needs darker colors," Walter murmured.

_I believe so, too, _his Protoss partner agreed. _Very well._ He handed over a dark purple coverall with a blue shirt, which Walter proclaimed was perfect. They went through the small pile of clothes slowly, with Walter and K'lore either saying it fit her complexion or it didn't.

Finally, perceiving that Victoria had had enough, Xarral put his foot down and said to choose the clothes and be quick about it.

They did. Victoria ended up wearing jean shorts and a white tank top. Xarral was laden with a huge bag, this one full of clothes; underwear, and a pair of pajamas, socks and shoes. That earned them a few stares, but neither of them cared. And since Xarral did not have a free arm, he could not carry the little girl trotting along by his feet. They went from store to store, picking out things he thought she might need, Victoria taking nearly six steps to Xarral's one. At last they made it back to his house, where Victoria promptly dropped to the floor of the bedroom. "You walk _fast_," she complained.

He picked her up so quickly she gasped. _You walk slowly._

"Do not!"

_You do._

"Nuh-uh!" She giggled as he swung her up to sit on his shoulder.

_You will need a name_, he said thoughtfully, wincing as she grabbed his nerve cords for balance.

"I have one," she replied, looking down at his head in confusion.

_Your old life is over. Your name is inconsequential._

"What does that mean?"

_It is of no use to you now._ Xarral moved the clothes bag to the corner slowly as not to knock the little girl off her precarious perch. He had cleared a small table in his room the night before, and now he began assembling a few of the things from the doodad box on it. Hair brush, tooth cleaner, face cloth, hair soap, nightlight, a pad of paper and a few pencils, crayons, and markers… all the while he was thinking. What name would Victoria like and would fit her at the same time? _Do you like your name?_

"Not really…"

She was brave, this one, not afraid to speak her mind, even to those she was not supposed to. Brave. She was a brave child. _Then you shall be Azalel._ "Aza" for brave; "lel" for child, feminine form. Azalel teetered on his shoulder; he put up a hand to steady her.

"Aza-lel?"

_Yes. It means 'brave child.'_

She was silent, and he could feel her contemplating. He reached up and pulled her from her perch, holding her directly in front of him. _Do you like the name, little one?_

Suddenly she smiled and reached up, wrapping her tiny arms around his neck. "Yep! Love it, Father."

Father. Xarral impulsively tightened his arms around her, hugging her to his broad chest. Any doubt that was left from deciding the little girl would stay with him vanished. He swore he would love her for the rest of his days, just as if she was borne of his mate and from his seed.

He must have transmitted this decision to little Azalel, because she snuggled even closer against him. Her mind became quiet, tender; she sighed contentedly.

They stayed that way for a long time. After half an hour of quiet contemplation Azalel dozed off, exhausted from their day's adventures. Xarral put her down in the little wooden bed they had bought downtown, and then he sat down on a high, angular chair made specifically for Protoss to watch her breathe.

Something tugged at his thoughts: a memory sprang up in his mind—a Terran girl, crouched over a Protoss warrior, weeping as he spoke to her then gave his spirit up to the gods and disappearing… a girl who had brown eyes and brown hair, bloody and tattered…

The battle of Shakuras… something was amiss here, something was familiar…

Azalel shifted in her sleep. Right now, to her, nothing mattered but the fact that she was safe, warm, loved, and happy. It was more than she received at her old home, with her inattentive parents.

And right now, he decided, that was all he needed. He would deal with the memory when the time came.


	3. School and Secrets

A few days later, when he had determined that she had had enough time to get used her new life, he started her in school. As soon as they stepped into the Warden's office, Azalel attached herself like a bur to her father's leg.

The Warden, a Protoss named Kazaar, and his assistant, a Terran named Elizabeth, peered over their respective desks at her. _This is your daughter, yes?_ Kazaar murmured.

_Yes. Her name is Azalel._

Elizabeth stirred. "I thought her name was Victoria."

_It _was _Victoria. We have changed it. Azalel, these will be your Wardens; Kalai Kazaar and Miss Elizabeth Thrink._ He shook his leg slightly. _Do you think I would allow anyone to harm you, little one?_

"No," Azalel whispered. She detached herself from him and stared up at them. "Hello," she said softly, still gripping the hard muscle of her father's calf with one hand.

_Good morning, child._

"Hello, Azalel," Elizabeth added. She looked at Kazaar. "I think she would go well with Homeroom #171."

_Kalai Liezea? Yes; I believe you are right._ Kazaar checked his screen for confirmation; he nodded. _She will do quite nicely. Please accompany Miss Thrink, Azalel._

She looked way up at Xarral, who nodded. _I will be back to bring you home after noon._

Shyly she went with the older woman, though she refused to take her hand. She looked over her shoulder frequently before the doors closed behind her. Kazaar leaned back. _Has all the information on her been entered into the archives?_

_Yes. She does not practice the Terran custom of a "last name." She will be known simply as Azalel._

"_Brave child." A fitting name for her. Through her fear I could feel her curiosity. She is also determined not to let you down._

_Yes. I am aware of that._ He smiled. Azalel could not "let him down" on any occasion.

_Why did you take the child as a daughter, Xarral? _Kazaar wanted to know.

_That is my business, _the old High Templar said flatly, and that was all he would speak of on the matter; he left.

The classroom was huge, though it only held about twenty students; the Protoss needed twice the room that a Terran did. They sat by alphabetical order—Terrans in front by their last names, and as they were so much larger, Protoss in back by their names. Time was when they would have been separated by clans, but that no longer mattered. Azalel sat right behind a girl named Suzanne Ackner, a chatty girl who tried to learn Azalel's age, likes, dislikes, and where she lived within the first fifteen minutes of class. Azalel didn't answer—she knew that Suzanne's patience would wear out and she would ignore her, just as everyone did.

Azalel liked the teacher, an elegant Protoss woman who walked up and down the hallways of desks as she spoke. At Azalel's desk, she paused and rested a hand on her tiny shoulder. _If there is anything I can do to make you feel more comfortable, Azalel, all you have to do is ask, _she said, thus warming the child's attitude towards her.

They had an hour for lunch, and most ate outside as it was such a nice day. The older Protoss and Terran children sat around in groups; the younger ones ran around to play. Azalel studied the faces of the others with a quiet sadness. She walked to a tree in the middle of the schoolyard, a big old twisted thing, and sat. There she would eat her lunch, alone, as it always had been.

_What are those?_

Startled, she looked up. A young Protoss boy, one of the students in her class, stood over her. Blue-streaked green scales glinted in the daylight, dancing with the patterns of the moving leaves above him. His eyes glowed orange-red, and his tunic was a simple gray.

Completely baffled, she asked, "What?"

_Those strange white things. In your mouth._

Still confused, she put a hand up to her mouth. "Teeth."

_What are they for?_ Asked another who had come up beside him. There were four of them, three boys and a girl. She thought it was a girl—that feminine quality is known everywhere, even in aliens.

"Eating," she said, and giggled.

_Strange._

_The sound she made or the "teeth?"_

_Both._

_My name is Tolar,_ the first said abruptly, extending his hand. Timidly she put out her own inside his; even as a young one his hand was at least three times bigger than hers. "I'm Azalel." They shook solemnly.

_En Taro Tassadar, Azalel. What is the moving thing in your mouth?_

She giggled again. "My tongue!"

_May I touch it?_

She shrugged and extended her tongue, whereas Tolar put out his claw and stroked the smooth side of it against the pink muscle. His friends—Saschnaz and the two twins, Z'lirra and Zyram—crowded around, each taking turns in touching it. Azalel laughed throughout the entire time. She was bombarded with questions about other extremities of her Terran body until Tolar told them to stop.

_You can eat with us if you like, from now on, _he told her.

"Okay."

_What was life like? Beyond the warp gate?_

"Huh?"

_The warp gate._

"The big white thing?"

_Yes._

She shrugged. Sensing she didn't want to talk about it, Tolar left the subject alone.

Xarral picked her up at the end of the day, like he said he would. He was surprised and pleased to see that she came to greet him with a big smile on her face. She was standing with a few Protoss children, talking cheerfully. When she saw him she perked up and yelled "Father!" and ran to him. He was slightly embarrassed, used to more restrained Protoss, but brushed the feeling aside. "I made some friends," she said, pulling him over to the small group. "This is Tolar an' this is Zyram an' this is Saschnaz an' this is Z'lirra," she said, pointing to each one of them in turn. They stood stiffly, not knowing how to react to the large, intimidating warrior.

_I am pleased to meet all of you,_ he said, more for Azalel's interest than his own. _It is very good that she is making friends._

They all bowed uncertainly, palms flat against their thighs and their eyes downcast in respect.

Azalel didn't seem to see them being all reserved. She beamed up at him. _Come, _he said, picking her up, and, with a last nod at the four, walked away.

"Bye!" Azalel called over his shoulder, waving enthusiastically.

Tolar raised a hand in a casual salute; the rest of them were too busy being relieved to notice.

"What does 'In taro tass'dar' mean?" she asked as they walked home.

_En Taro Tassadar. It means 'in honor of Tassadar,' a famous Protoss warrior who destroyed the Zerg Overmind. It is the Protoss greeting, along with 'En Taro Adun,' another famous warrior from thousands of years ago._

"What's Zerg?"

_Zerg are evil creatures bent on destroying everything. Or, shall I say, _were_, as they were destroyed almost five hundred years ago._

"Oh." She thought a moment, then added, "That's a long time."

_Indeed it is. _He changed the subject. _Did you enjoy yourself at school?_

"Yep! Tolar an' Saschnaz an' Z'lirra an' Zylam touched my teeth an' my tongue."

_They touched them._

"They thought it was cool."

Xarral laughed, a low dry sound that startled her. _Interesting._

"Yep."

Azalel stayed friends with the Protoss that she had played with during the first day, except Saschnaz, who went into the military service. His family was very old and traditional, and he was entirely Templar without any Khalai blood, so he did not have much of a choice. Gradually they grew apart. They did, however, make friends with another boy, a Terran named George.

When Azalel touched upon puberty, she grew at an astonishing rate. Only twelve years old, she nevertheless reached five feet and had the body of a much older woman. She was curvaceous but muscular, had full pink lips, a stubborn chin, bronze skin, and a particularly powerfully sweet singing voice. Her particular talents, as such, were the arts; she enjoyed both the visual, audio, and theatrical arts. She did not grow her hair out as she once said she would, because she enjoyed not having to do anything to it. She never did anything her father might frown upon—for frowning was all he had to do for her to promise never to do that something wrong again.

In ninth grade, Azalel had grown to reach her father's chest. She filled out nicely, though not much changed except her voice and her body—her voice deepened slightly, but remained a ringing soprano, and her body lost most of its baby fat.

"A boy named Chase in the grade above me was moved to a special class today," she told her father one day while they lounged in the living room, reading. "I thought the special classes were for kids with disabilities, and he's perfectly fine."

_Who is Chase?_

Instead of describing the boy to him, she called up a picture in her mind. It was easier for both of them; she didn't have to waste her breath and he could simply pick up the information he needed. She did it without thinking about it; it was that easy for her.

_Ah. I met him once. He had a particular talent with telepathy, for a Terran._

"He's telepathic?"

_Yes._

"Oh. That would account for the weirdness in my head whenever he was around."

_You are telepathic as well._

She blinked. That was news to her. "Me?"

_Less than Chase is, but yes. It comes from being with Protoss most of your life. You have not noticed it because you are used to it, and can only sense other telepaths and speak with them._

"During the Zerg Wars, telepathic Terrans were trained as weapons called Ghosts—well, you know that. Why aren't they anymore?"

He looked at her strangely. _They are. Soldiers must continue to be trained, Azalel._

"What? Why? There's nothing attacking us… is there?"

_No, not at the moment. But the Hybrids had been withdrawn, and so quickly, that many think they have yet to bring their full-forced attack upon us. And—_he paused, his mental voice darkening—_there is still the matter of Ulrezaj, the Dark Templar traitor. He has yet to be completely dealt with, as he has disappeared._

"Oh." She was silent for a moment, then asked, "What happened to the Dark Templar, Father?"

_The Dark Templar continue to wander the void, looking for clues of our creators, the Xel'Naga—we have more information now that they sent their Hybrids against us, but they have disappeared once more._

_Azalel!_ boomed Tolar's unmistakable thought-voice. _Come; we are in the forest!_

_Coming,_ Azalel called back. She put her book away. "See you later, Father!"

He was smiling. _You see?_

"See what?"

_You called young Tolar with your mind._

"I did? Weird."

_Azalel!_

_Would you hush? I'm coming!_ She stopped and grinned sheepishly at Xarral. "Oh," she said. "Huh." Then she ran out.

The forest—the five friends ran all about the woods, but there was a certain place they met to go romping. Azalel ran as fast as she could, entering the little clearing at a dead run. "Here," she called cheerfully.

_We heard you, _Z'lirra laughed.

Azalel grinned and trotted towards her. Zyram and Tolar were already wrestling, tussling about on the forest floor with obvious enjoyment, and George sat watching them. He waved at Azalel, who waved back. Then she and Z'lirra faced each other, bowed, and got right to the point. They clashed, the Protoss woman soon having the advantage and throwing the smaller one down to the ground. Azalel rolled to the side before Z'lirra's foot could come down on her ribcage, and used her agility to slip between the other's legs. As she rose, Z'lirra spun around just in time to catch a side kick at her knee and flip her around. Azalel landed on her hands and knees and scrambled to her feet. They circled, crouched into low, aggressive stances.

They battled for nearly fifteen minutes—then abruptly traded partners. Azalel found herself facing Tolar. They attacked each other immediately, gripping at one another. Tolar grabbed her upper thigh, trying to lever her up in a prelude to throwing her.

One clawed finger slipped up to penetrate the outer lip of Azalel's crotch.

Liquid warmth melted her insides, moving up to her stomach and back down again, and suddenly she felt wetness in her loins too. Azalel leaped away from Tolar's grasping hands, which had pulled back as soon as he realized her discomfort. _Azalel? _ He asked, confused, stepping forward to reach for her. _Are you all right?_ Z'lirra, Zyram, and George had stopped as well, watching with concern.

Azalel turned and fled, ignoring the mental and physical shouts of her friends behind her. Her face was red with humiliation. She ran to the almost abandoned school yard (there were a few Terrans playing around near the school), found that twisted tree that she always hung around, and scrambled up the trunk. She tucked herself into the smallest, quietist niche she could find between two branches and stayed there, the wind teasing her hair about her face. She remembered what her father had once taught her—to shield her thoughts when she didn't want anyone to find her, and closed her eyes.

The air cooled, the sun sank, and it began to spread tendrils of color across the horizon. Xarral found her then, and he called sternly for her to come down. She peered down at him—how small he appeared from up here!—and slowly unfolded herself from the branches, her body protesting the movement after so long a time sitting there.

As soon as she reached the earth, Xarral loomed over her, gazing down at her with his particular lofty, indignant, disapproving look. She found she couldn't look at his eyes, and stared at the ground. He didn't berate her—he never had before, and he never needed to—but said merely _Come_, and turned and glided away, that strange glowing ghost of him of psychic energy trailing behind him. She followed, eyes downcast, and neither of them said a word until they reached their home.

_Sit, _Xarral said flatly, pointing to her chair.

Azalel sat. "I'm sorry, Father," she whispered.

_Are you even aware of what you did?_

"Yes… no… not really."

_You frightened me._

Wide-eyed, she looked quickly up at his face, then down again. "I did?" she said in a small voice. "But… you never get scared."

_I was today._

She didn't answer.

_I had no idea where you were. You learned to shield your thoughts to almost perfection. If it were not for the bond we shared, I may not have found you at all. Your friends were not going to give up looking for you until I sent them home. They were very worried._

This was the first time he had ever scolded her. "I'm sorry," she whispered again.

He remained in his upright position for a moment more, glaring at her. His eyes glowed and sparked. Then he relaxed, stooping down to gaze directly into her face. With one finger, he chucked her under the chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. _What happened?_ He asked softly.

She told all. He listened intently as she spoke, and at the end just looked at her. Then he murmured, _What overcame you to hide from me?_

"I—"

_I am your _father_. I will listen to, and understand, anything you have to say or anything that goes wrong. Do you comprehend this? _He had suddenly become the age he actually was, and sorrowful. _I am upset you would even _think_ of hiding from me._

And he did look upset—so much so that Azalel threw her arms around him to reassure him that he was her only love in the world. He hugged her back, pulling her to sit on his lap on his own larger chair. As they sat there together, she remembered when she was in sixth grade and had started her period while climbing that big twisted tree. She had freaked out and ran home, where Xarral had spent the better part of half an hour to calm and explain the menstrual cycle to her.

_And why did you not run home this time?_

Azalel shrugged, looking down at the floor. "I dunno."

_Feeling such a thing is normal, my daughter, especially for one your own age. Your body is maturing, and you will feel more and more like what you did this afternoon. All you must do is learn how to control it._

"How, Father?"

_You will have to find that out by yourself._

They were silent for a while, Azalel curled up against his broad scaled chest. Then she murmured "Father?"

_Yes._

"Who were my parents?"

She felt him stiffen. His arms around her tightened their grip. _What makes you think of that now?_

"I… I don't know… I was just thinking how a Terran might have explained that subject to me and… well, you should know!"

He hesitated.

"What's wrong? Were they bad, or something?"

_No…_

"Well then what?"

…_child…_

"What?" she sat up, alarmed. "What's wrong?"

_Your parents came from another world._

"Oh, another planet? What's so wrong about—?"

_No. Not… Not as you are thinking. Another place, another _time._ A different reality than this one._

She sat there a moment, completely shocked. "I…" she wet her lips and whispered, "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

Xarral shifted her off his lap and stood, gazing down on her. _Tomorrow, then. I will explain tomorrow._

"But Father—"

_No. Tomorrow. Go to bed, Azalel._

She did as she was told. And she dreamed.

_She ran, stumbling, through the woods down the path only she knew, barely ahead of those who chased her. Her small legs tangled in spider webs, branches, and vines, attempting to trip her every step of the way. Just behind her, grasping hands reached to pick her up and take her back to the bad place… she cleared the forest and her feet thumped on wood._

_Immediately there was a blinding, burning flash of light that permeated everything. She heard cries behind her, but somehow the light didn't hurt her eyes._

_And then _he _came. Him. Her savior._

"I knew you'd come_," she said._

_Azalel, _boomed _his _voice. _Awaken._

Azalel opened her brown eyes to her father's inquisitive glowing ones. _You usually wake up early, _he commented. _I thought it might be best to awaken you now._

"Huh? Oh! What time is it?" she asked, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

_After sunrise. School starts in a few minutes._

"Oh, _no_," she groaned, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "Why didn't you get me up earlier?"

He cocked his head, and she ducked hers to hide her grin. "Okay, okay. I'm going."

Azalel could get ready in record time, and today was no different. She raced through cleaning herself and getting dressed, then grabbed a piece of fruit on the way out. "Bye Father!" she paused at the door to glance back at the Protoss. "Remember you promised to tell me about my parents when I got home!"

_I will not forget._

She beamed, waved, and bolted out.

Xarral stepped out of the house, watching his daughter charging across the lawn into town. He watched until she was gone, and then sighed and stretched. His aging body did not quite creak, but it came close. Shedding his clothes until he wore only a loincloth, he began going through a few old exercises from long ago. As his body warmed up, he closed his eyes and swept through the air, using his power to lift him about a foot from the earth. Long years of doing nothing with his telekinesis left it starving for attention, and the only release he got was from exercising and meditating. Ah, how he yearned for battle once again! The blood rushing through his veins; the noble, ancient fire that burned in his heart!

For hours he kicked and slashed at the air with his feet and psi-blades, a whirling menace. When the sun was at its highest point, he stopped and went back inside, cooling himself down with a few slower exercises. He then took out his Khaydarin shard, settled into a comfortable position and concentrated on the tiny psionic flame that burned inside it.

He didn't know how long he sat there, reveling with quiet joy the energy that strengthened his own. He was so deep that he didn't hear Azalel's pounding feet, and the creak of her step on the floorboards.

Azalel felt the power as she raced along the path home. She peeked in the front door: her father sat cross-legged on the floor, cradling his Khaydarin shard with both hands and emanating serenity and bliss. She sat down on her chair to wait. This was his time to be happy, and she wasn't going to interrupt.

Presently Xarral stirred, opening his eyes. _Child, _he said without looking up, _you should have spoken to me._

She shrugged. "You love doing that; why would I?"

Xarral cocked his head at her, then stood, cupping the crystal in one hand, and went to reattach the silver chain to it and place it back around his neck where it belonged. He came back and quietly walked outside, Azalel trailing behind.

_Your parents, _Xarral said tonelessly.

"Yes?"

He sat in the grass, gesturing for her to do the same. She slid to the ground.

_Ninety-three years ago, _he began, _this was a fledgling colony. It was the second colony to have both Protoss and Terrans living here._

Azalel was silent. Her father almost never said something without meaning, so this had to have something to do with her parents.

_The construction of a warp gate did not go particularly noticed, for all Protoss worlds and colonies had warp gates—and, soon, the Terrans would too._

_However, something went wrong with this particular warp gate. I am not exceptionally good with the intricacies of the mechanics, so I cannot tell you what happened exactly. All I know is that something went wrong—and the other end of the warp gate opened up in a different time zone than this one. A time or a place where the Terran outlaws have not yet been shunned to other worlds._

_Both Terrans and Protoss were intrigued, to say the least; they studied the ancient culture to find out how Terrans lived before. We do not know if it is another dimension, or merely more than a thousand years ago, but any attempts to replicate what had happened failed._

_And then a disease swept the colony—a species-oriented, age-specific disease. It killed ninety percent of Terran children under the ages of twelve before we could decipher a vaccine._

Azalel's eyes widened. How awful…

_It was about that time when I arrived on this planet, and settled on the edge of the town. Since the war ended, with Protoss help, there were not many orphaned children on any Terran planet… so we took a few from the world that had opened up so invitingly. We took children who were orphaned, sick, or beaten—those who we could give a better life to, and those who other people would not miss._

So she wasn't missed back there? What…

_Hush, Azalel._

"Sorry," she muttered, stilling her mind.

_It was then I volunteered to contact a child, to speak to and to lure him or her into our warp gate. I do not know why I decided to—perhaps I was lonely… there were plenty of children who were in much more pain than you were, and more who needed love of a family more. But, as I was searching, I was drawn to your determination and your simple delight at everything around you. You were an ignored child, Azalel. Your parents never listened to anything you said, never spent any time with you. And yet you kept trying, talking to them, forcing their attention back to you._

"You left a note for me," Azalel whispered. "You left a note for me in the roots… by the dock…"

_Do you remember?_

"Not… not everything…"

"_I knew you'd come,"_ she'd said.

_Your name was Victoria._

"_Victoria_?"

_Yes._

"I'm glad we changed it."

_I was not sure I was going to keep you at that time. I was about to hand you to another couple, two Terrans who had two sons. One of these sons is your friend, George._

"Really? He was going to be my brother?"

_Yes. But you did not want it. And I… I had to keep you. I was already attached to you; had grown so during our long correspondence. I remember when you came running towards me, and just stood there for me, arms outstretched. You were unafraid of me, of the warp gate, of anything. And so I took you. I took you to my home, and I changed your name. I have been your father, and you warmed to that fact. The rest you know._

He was about to say more; there was something else needed to be said—but he just bowed his head and fell silent. Azalel was dumbstruck at what he had just told her, and couldn't find her voice for a long few minutes. Then she asked, "Have any of the other children been told any of this?"

_I do not know, though I do not believe so. Terran adults are afraid to tell their offspring the truth if it might hurt them._

Azalel's brow furrowed. She opened her mouth, closed it, and made a decision: she went over to crouch in front of him.

"I wish to meet them," she said.


	4. The Return

Azalel hugged herself against the wind, wrapping the overcoat tighter around her frame. It was getting colder out—soon, brown shriveled leaves would carpet the earth. Tolar stood beside her with one arm around her, a heartening presence.

She glanced behind her. An assembly of Protoss and Terrans, from ages twelve to four hundred, watched her intently. Her eyes sought out Xarral, who was speaking to an engineer. It had taken him nearly a month to convince the community to allow Azalel to travel beyond the warp gate and find her true parents.

Azalel had used the warp gate twice in her life—once, coming here, and the other, taking a trip with her father to Aiur, the Protoss homeworld. Both times she hated the sensation.

Xarral came up behind her and looked at Tolar, who hesitated and tightened his hold, not wanting to leave her side.

"I'll be okay," she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. He bowed his head to her and stepped away, winding his way through the crowd to the rest of their friends.

_Are you ready, child?_ Xarral murmured.

"Are you sure you can't come with me?" she whispered back.

_I cannot. This is your trial, and yours alone._ He placed a large clawed hand on her shoulder, comfortingly.

She glanced behind her again, and found her friends. She waved; they called to her with mental and vocal shouts. "There are so many people here."

_This is very important to everyone. Not only will you be going back, but you may be able to answer a few questions about Terran culture no one was able to answer before. Look._ He directed her towards a gap in the crowd. _Look there—_

She squinted, peering into the shadow, and saw—

A Dark Templar!

She had seen one only once; on the trip to Aiur. That one had barely passed through her vision, gliding like a ghost about twenty yards from her. This one was merely twenty _feet_ away, and standing still. The breeze moved his soft black cloak about sluggishly, and half the face was covered by a similar piece of cloth.

_That is Patriarch Zeratul, _Xarral said softly in her mind.

She looked up at him, eyes wide. "_Zeratul_?" she gasped. "But—I thought—I thought he disappeared!"

_He did, only to reappear to help destroy the Zerg and beat back the Hybrids once and for all. He continues to search for answers among the void along with his brethren, but spends most of his time on Shakuras. Not much is heard of him, which is why you thought what you did, that he was gone. Because of his friendship with James Raynor, he is as interested about the Terrans as we are._

"Wow." She looked up at him. "Can we go to Shakuras after I come back, Father?"

He squeezed her shoulder. _Not many go there, but perhaps._

"Well, they're interested in _Terran _culture, and I'm interested in _theirs_."

_You are an intriguing little one. _Xarral lifted his head, gazing over his shoulder. _Ah._

There was a _click_, then a _hum_—

Blinding light filled the area as the portal opened. Xarral paused, looking about, then tugged a chain from around his neck and pressed it into her hand. Immediately coolness spread through her palm into her body and through her mind. _Here._

"What is—" Azalel opened her hand and gasped at the Khaydarin crystal. "But Father! This is yours!"

_I will feel safer if you had it with you. It holds some of my memories, my concentration, and my power. Do not argue._ Xarral wrapped one arm around her waist in a hug, which she returned, then moved away. _Live up to your name, child._

"I will," she whispered, slipping the chain over her head and tucking the small glowing crystal under her shirt.

Then another mind touched hers, one that was much older and powerful and vaster than her father's—something she hadn't thought possible.

_En Taro Adun, little Terran._

Azalel gasped. The mind withdrew. She looked behind her one last time—piercing glowing eyes of the Dark Templar met hers. Her own eyes widened, and she turned away to the warp gate.

She went through.

It was cold here, too—in full-blown winter. Azalel was glad she brought her heavy overcoat. Searing wind from the frozen river behind her buffeted her; she snuggled deeper within the cloth and forced herself to move. Her boots clunked on the frozen wood pier and crunched in snow as she trudged up the dock and into the woods.

All of it was familiar. _Well, of course, _she thought. _I lived here five years of my life, even if I don't remember any of it!_

Up the path she went, hunched over from the icy wind and snow. When she got to the house, she steeled herself and knocked firmly on the door.

There was a muffled voice, a grumble, and creak, and the door opened.

"Christopher and Dana Routhe?" she asked.

The pretty young woman stared at her, mouth open. She stammered, "Oh my goodness… no, they've moved. They don't live here anymore."

"Oh. Could you tell me where they went?" Azalel rubbed her quickly numbing hands together and tugged the overcoat even closer.

"Why… why don't you come in," the flustered woman said.

"Thank you." Azalel stepped in and the woman closed the door. Immediately she sighed, relaxing in the heat. "This is much better."

"You don't even have a hat on," the woman cried, slipping into motherliness as if just realizing that fact. "Come in, warm up! What possessed you to walk all the way out here?"

Azalel was about to tell her she came up from the dock, but decided that would sound too suspicious and merely shrugged. "I guess the cold didn't really register when I started out."

The woman, who said her name was Beth Halloway, led her into the den where a handsome young man was poring over paper, calculators, and scratching numbers. "Sit here," Beth said, gesturing to a couch near the fireplace. Azalel sat. "This is Robert, my husband. Bob, could you stop doing those bills a second, please?"

The man looked up and blinked. "Hi, hon—who's this?" He put on a pair of spectacles and squinted at Azalel.

"This is Miss…" Beth glanced at her.

"My name is Azalel," she said calmly, and the man stood to shake her hand. "I was looking for somebody and your wife was kind enough to let me out of the snow."

"Out _there?_" Robert turned to stare out the nearest window. "My God, it's a hell storm out there!"

"I know." Azalel smiled at him, extending her hands near the fire. "I was out there."

"What were you doing out there?"

"Looking for the Routhes. I was told they lived here, but Mrs. Halloway has informed me that they've moved." She glanced at the woman, who nodded.

"We bought this house eleven years ago, right after the Routhe's daughter disappeared."

"Victoria?"

"Poor thing. She was kidnapped, you know. Disappeared without a trace."

"Do you know where they live now?"

Beth nodded again. "We've actually kept in touch with them for the past few years, and… well…" She stared at her for a moment, then burst out, "Why in the world are you looking for them at this time of day, at this time of the year, during a snow storm?"

Azalel threw back her head and laughed. "It wasn't snowing when I started." She held up a hand. "Yes, I know what you mean." She looked right into Beth's eyes, then turned and looked into Robert's. "I'm looking for them because I _am _their daughter. My former name is Victoria."


	5. The 'Rents

The wooden bench was hard and uncomfortable, but Azalel had experienced worse at the hands of the desks at school, and was relatively relaxed. All around her, various people bustled about and opposite of her sat Christopher and Dana Routhe, who stared at her with apprehension.

It was a few days after her initial meeting with the Halloways. After she had convinced them to give her their phone number (what an odd communications device!) she had slept in the Holloway's house. Several days later, she managed to contact her parents at their house—only a mile away—and arrange a meeting. They insisted on doing a blood work test to see if her DNA matched theirs, and she hadn't argued: if they wanted to convince themselves that she was actually their birth child, it was fine with her.

She smiled at them. They looked away, uncertain.

They weren't really that interesting to look at. Christopher was slightly potbellied, had streaks of gray hair in with the brown, brown eyes, and a slack face. Dana had blue eyes, blonde hair, and a worried countenance. Azalel had obviously gotten her looks from Christopher—she couldn't bring herself even to _think _"father." She had only one father, and he was back on her homeworld.

A doctor in a long white overcoat stepped out of one of the offices. "Well," he said, looking up at them. He had a wide mouth and friendly face, with gentle gray eyes and hair. "Christopher and Dana Routhe, meet Victoria Routhe, your daughter."

The couple went rigid. The turned to look at Azalel, who smiled at them again. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Routhe," she said pleasantly.

"But how?" Dana whispered. "How have… where have…" she stared at Azalel.

"I'll explain everything," she promised. "But later. Somewhere more private."

"Our home," Christopher said immediately. Dana looked at him quickly. "But… I think you should know… you have a brother now. He's only seven years old; his name is Doran."

"Doran." She tasted the name. "Doran and Victoria Routhe, son and daughter of Christopher and Dana Routhe. I think that's wonderful."

They traded glances again. "You… you do?"

"Oh, absolutely," she said happily. "I've always been an only child; I've often wondered what it'd be like to have a sibling. Well, Tolar's always been like my brother, and George was _almost _my brother, but…" she noticed she was babbling and went fluorescent red. "Sorry."

Again they traded glances. Azalel heaved an inward sigh. How in the world could her parents be so meek and frightened?

"May I meet him?" she asked instead, politely. "Maybe go to your house? We have a lot to talk about."

"Well," Dana said softly, "I… that is, we… we called the police."

Azalel froze. "Why?"

"You were kidnapped. We wanted them to… maybe try and track down the person who kidnapped you."

"_Kidnapped_ me?" Azalel said, shocked. "You saw what happened. You were there! Don't you remember?"

But they were shaking their heads. "You were kidnapped," Dana said stubbornly. "There was a man down by the dock and he took you away in a boat."

Now it was Azalel who shook her head. "I don't think so, but we can talk it out with the police." What a strange word, and a strange notion. In her world, either you were a warrior or you were not. "Shall we go?"

"Wait," Dana said. "Chris, can I talk to you?" she whispered.

Christopher followed her obediently to the other end of the room. Putting one hand discreetly in the midst of her flowing brown hair, Azalel cupped one ear and leaned towards them. It wasn't much, but she could pick out a few words.

"—may be our daughter… we don't _know _her… years ago."

"It's Victoria. What… say? That she can't… with us?"

"No, I just think we… some more caution… all. What will we… Doran? Never told him… sister."

"The police will be waiting for us. We can bring her… and listen to her story."

"…suppose…"

Azalel rested her chin on her hand to cover the fact that she was eavesdropping and smiled at the couple as they came over. "All set?" she said brightly, and when they nodded, she stood. "Okay, let's go!"

The ride to the police quarters was a long, awkward silence. Azalel filled it with inane chatter, hiding away her confusion. Why were her parents acting like this? Wouldn't they have been happy to see her? Yes, they had ignored her as a child, but they could have loved her and wished for her safe return. Right?

As soon as they arrived they were bustled into the headquarters, where they were fussed over with signing thousands of reams of paper, and then Azalel was shut into a small room with a single camera and a little bald man with a mustache.

Her head whirling with it all, she stared at the man. "Hello," he said, extending his hand. She shook it dazedly. "My name is Matthias Salle. You can call me Matt."

"Azalel," she replied. "Just Azalel."

"Ah, yes. You caused quite a stir around here when you disappeared."

"I would expect so," she said dryly, surprising a laugh from him. "I would have also expected my parents to be a little happier that I came back."

"They are happy; they're very happy," Matt assured her. "They just need a little bit of time to adjust."

She shrugged. "That's not how it seemed to me."

"Oh? How so?"

"They seem too afraid to be my parents. Too jumpy."

He smiled. "You were always a bold child compared to them."

"I'm sorry? You knew me?"

"Yes. My wife's name is Patricia Salle, though we weren't married back then. Her maiden name was Boone."

"Boone. Miss Boone?"

"Do you remember her?"

"I remember she tried to keep me away from Father."

"Father?"

"Father. My father. Xarral."

His eyes narrowed. "Xarral?"

She frowned. Had she given too much away? No… of course not. Even if they knew who he was, they couldn't find him. "Yes."

He scribbled something down in his notebook. "Is he the one who kidnapped you?"

"I suppose you could say that." She thought a minute. "Although what he did wasn't so bad. I live with him now, and I'm very happy; I love him so much, and he loves me."

"Are you sure he loves you?"

She snapped her head up, mouth agape in shock.

"All right, all right. I had to ask. He kidnapped you, remember?"

"It wasn't for something awful, though! He saw I was unhappy, and he took me away to give me a better home."

"How do you know you were unhappy?"

"He told me."

"He may have been lying."

A stern line formed on Azalel's brow. "If you imply one more time—"

"I'm sorry. I'm an investigator; I have to ask these questions."

"You're making it seem like he's a horrible man!" Azalel cried. "If he was so selfish, why did he let me come here and meet my real parents?"

Matt sighed. "Victoria, what he did was illegal. It may not seem like that to you—"

"I know _exactly _what he did. He explained it to me in great detail how he came about finding me, and luring me to him, and taking me away. I know all about your court system and your laws. So don't lecture me." Her eyes bored into his. "And _don't _call me Victoria. My name is Azalel. He told me how he came about calling me that, too."

"Victoria—I mean, Azalel—"

"What do you_ really _want to know? What are you alluding to?"

Matt shook his head. "I need to know exactly what happened."

"He left me notes by the river, stuck in the roots of a great tree. I wrote him back and left my letters there every night; every morning he had another there. That way we maintained contact for weeks before he took me. I don't know how we got around to it, but the police were involved, and I ran down to the dock. He took me away there."

Matt reached over and turned off the recorder. "Off the record."

Azalel's patience was wearing thin. "What?" she snapped.

He ignored the annoyance. "Down by the dock… this 'Xarral' didn't take you by boat, did he? I mean… I was there… but it's been so long. I'm beginning to second doubt myself." He took a deep breath. "All I remember was that there was a huge bright light… and there was something standing there. Some_one_. It completely ignored us, like we didn't matter. Then the light faded and it was gone… you were gone. Everything was back to normal." He stared at her. "Everyone came up with the story that there was a man in a boat and he took you away, and by time they got to the other side of the river he was gone with you. They've convinced themselves that that's really what happened. Is it what happened?"

She studied him. Could she trust him? Well, it didn't matter once again. If he told anybody they wouldn't believe him. "It's called a warp gate. They opened it when I was near, and Xarral, my father, came through to take me to his home. That's what the bright light was. And yes, it did happen. No, you can't open it back up by yourself."

A long, gusty sigh escaped from him, and he leaned back in his chair. "I knew it."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. I _knew _it wasn't a boat…"

They stayed in silence for a while longer, then Azalel asked, "Um… so, can I go now?"

"Hm? Oh… yes, I have all I need. Thank you for coming."

"Not like I had a choice," she muttered, and stood. "Good-bye."

"If you have time, stop by the house, will you? My wife would love to see you again."

"Yeah… okay." Azalel got up, still scowling, and went into the living room. Her parents jumped from their seats like they were stung and looked at her, Dana wringing her hands. Azalel walked right up to them and said firmly, "I would like to see my little brother now."

She herded them into the car and they drove silently. Azalel didn't try to fill in the silences this time; she was too annoyed.

The Routhe's house was huge, a testimony to their wealth, and as they rolled into the driveway Azalel saw a little boy playing in the front yard with an older woman. His nanny?

"Who's that?" she asked.

"Mrs. Halloway. You met her before."

"Oh, yes, I remember. I didn't see her face clearly." She peered closer—yes, that was Beth Halloway. She jumped out and trotted towards the two before the car stopped rolling. As she neared, the boy noticed her and stopped making a snowman to turn and look at her.

She stopped. For a long moment both she and Doran just stood there, scrutinizing each other. Then she crouched and beckoned, and the boy came closer to peer at her face. "Hello, Doran," she said quietly, "I'm your sister, Azalel."

"Az-a-lel," he repeated. "Are you Victoria?"

"My name used to be Victoria, bur someone changed it for me."

"Were you kidnapped?"

"Yes, I was."

"Did he hurt you?"

At the thought of Xarral hurting her, she laughed. "No, of course not."

"Why'd he kidnap you?"

She hesitated, biting her lip. "I wasn't happy here," she said finally.

"Why?"

"Dana and—Mom and Dad didn't pay attention to me much," she admitted. She was keenly aware of the three adults listening silently.

"Why not?"

Did she ask so many questions when she was that young? She shook her head. "They made a few mistakes when they were younger. But they're much better now, right?"

"Yeah," Doran said shyly. "Mom and Dad are nice."

"That's good. That's very good. What are you playing?" she asked.

He lit up. "I'm making a snowman," he said. "See?" he demonstrated by scooping up a handful of snow and packing it against the snowman enthusiastically.

She laughed, helping him pat more snow onto the mound. They began zealously forming a little white man. So intent was their play that they didn't notice when the parents moved to the shelter of the porch, watching them like hawks, not wanting to stand there the entire time but also not wanting to leave them alone.


	6. Family and Horror

Christopher and Dana watched as their son and daughter played together as if they were long lost friends, then wandered over to the porch to sit and unobtrusively observe them. When they had found out they were going to have another child, they juggled the possibility of having an abortion, decided against, and went to a few how-to-raise-children classes.

"What do you think?" Dana whispered to Mrs. Halloway. They leaned in to hear what she had to say.

"I don't know," Mrs. Halloway confessed. "I don't even know why I let her in that night of the snowstorm. All I could think of was how cold she looked, and how wonderful it would be to let her in out of the snow. Normally I wouldn't have let any strangers in, even in the snowstorm, no matter how small and helpless they looked. But… when I saw her…" she shrugged helplessly. "She started talking to me, and it occurred to me that nothing she said could ever be wrong."

"How does she do it?" Christopher asked. "She seems to be confused by us, even disgusted, but when she talks I can't help but think that the opposite is true."

"I don't like it," Dana whispered. "Isn't it some kind of psychological attack, to be kidnapped and come back? I mean, sometimes even if kidnapped children are abused they still think they want to be there."

"Have the police said anything?"

"They're looking into it now—"

"Mommy," Doran called. "Look what we made!"

The parents and Mrs. Halloway glanced over, and then stared. Where Doran's sloppily-made snowman once was, a towering figure stood. Almost naked, it sported only loincloth and a long alien face that tucked in at the bottom and elongated out the back. From the back hung a long chunk of snow that they had tried to make look like dozens of tendrils, tied near the top. The figure was muscular and had long arms and double knees. Azalel stood near it, her face red with embarrassment. She had lost track of time and of her hands, which were adept at molding clay and chipping stone. Inadvertently she had created Tolar, who had been on her mind at that moment.

It was too late; the damage was done. The adults got up to walk around and gawk at the magnificent snow sculpture. As the time stretched, she began to fidget and shift her feet. "C'mon, Doran," she said brightly to cover her embarrassment, "let's go inside."

"Can we have some hot chocolate and marshmallows?" Doran begged, taking her hand and pulling her over to the house.

Azalel frowned, confused for a moment. She had never had hot chocolate at home, as Xarral had never known that custom. "Sure," she said slowly. "If your mommy and daddy say we can."

"Of course you can," Dana said softly, not missing the fact that she had said "_your_ mommy and daddy" instead of "our." "Let me get the mix and the milk."

The group marched inside (the adults with one last look at the snow statue) and sat around the fireplace waiting for Dana to finish the hot chocolate. "So, Victoria," Mrs. Halloway said.

"Azalel."

"Pardon?"

"My name is Azalel."

She shook her head. "That's the name your kidnapper gave you—"

"That's right. That's the name Father gave me. And that's the name I grew up with. I don't care what my name was before."

Beth Halloway bit her lip. "But—"

Azalel sighed. "Contrary to popular belief, my father treats me with all the love and affection a father would give a daughter, all right?"

"But he _kidnapped _you. How could you call him your father when you're father's sitting right next to you?"

"Christopher didn't raise me. Father did. And, from what he told me, neither parents were very good ones."

Chris winced.

Doran, who was young enough not to care what had just transpired, bounced up and down impatiently. "Mommy, where's the hot chocolate?" he whined.

"It's coming, sweetheart," she called back over the drone of some machine. Azalel leaned back, glancing into the kitchen to see what the drone was. It was some kind of white box with numbers on the side. A light was inside the box, so she could see a few ceramic cups rotating in slow circles. "What's that?" she asked Chris, who also leaned back. He looked at her, confused. "It's a microwave. Don't you have microwaves where you live?"

"No."

He stared at her, and she stared back, not volunteering any more information. Finally he shrugged and looked away.

Dana came in then, carrying a tray full of mugs. "Careful, it's hot," she cautioned as they each took a cup. Azalel blew on hers until the steam lessened, then took a small sip. It almost burned her tongue, but she pulled her head back quickly and blew on it some more.

Everyone was quiet as they finished their hot chocolate, the silence uncomfortable and tense. Even Doran felt it and did not talk until they were done, and then Dana went over to the piano and began to play. They spent the rest of the day—all three hours of it—singing songs Azalel did not know and thought were fairly silly, such as "Jingle Bells" and "I'm Wishing for a White Christmas." She knew what Christmas was, of course, but the songs themselves were alien.

Then it was nighttime and Mrs. Halloway drove home. The parents put little Doran to bed, and pulled out the bed from the sofa in the living room where Azalel was meant to sleep that night.

As she lay there, with all the lights off and the snow beginning to fall again, Azalel contemplated her newfound "family." Doran was all right—of course he wouldn't be like his parents yet—but her parents, themselves? What was wrong with them?

She tossed and turned on the creaky bed, thinking and torturing herself with questions. After two hours of such behavior she finally fell asleep, and awoke like she normally did before dawn. No one was up yet, so she treated herself to a piece of fruit, got dressed with the clothes they had lent her, and folded up the sofa-bed while she waited, chomping on her apple smeared with peanut butter.

Soon she heard the stomping around upstairs that came with awakening household members, and she waited for them to come down, finishing her apple at a leisurely pace. When Dana came drifting downstairs with a loose bathrobe wrapped around her, she smiled and nodded at her.

Dana froze. "It's early. What are you doing up?"

Azalel sighed. What was all this suspicion for? "I get up before dawn every morning, because school starts at dawn."

"Your school starts at dawn?"

"Yes. Not here?"

"No."

Azalel stared at her for a moment, then shook her head. "When does it start, then?"

"Around eight o'clock for Doran."

"That's strange."

Dana shrugged, pulling her bathrobe a little closer. "Um… would you like something else to eat? That's not much of a breakfast…"

"Oh, no, that's all right. Father never really ate much, so I guess I kind of picked up a few habits of his." She smiled. Protoss only "ate" once in a ninety-hour cycle. Usually Azalel was in school or out with her friends when he did—she only saw him eat a few times in her life.

"All right…" Dana went into the kitchen. "Well, I have to make breakfast for the rest of them…"

"Okay." You do that, she thought, watching her cook.

Around seven-thirty Chris came down tugging a yawning and irritable Doran, who climbed onto the sofa with Azalel, leaned against her, and promptly fell asleep. "He's always doing that," Chris said, a little sheepishly.

Azalel smiled. "It's all right." She nudged the boy awake. "C'mon, sleepyhead." Doran yawned and mumbled and buried his head into the cushions. "Oh, come on now, it's not that bad. You should be used to it by now. Wake up." She finally managed to make him sit up and rub his eyes, so that he blinked blearily and glared at her. She tickled him until he was fully conscious and he jumped off the sofa, giggling.

"Breakfast is on the table," Dana called, and Chris and Doran both went in to eat.

The rest of the morning was a blur. Chris and Dana got Doran dressed and ready to go to school, and they all trooped down to wait with him for the bus. The snow-Tolar was still out in the front lawn and had not melted at all. Azalel's face burned as the parents and Doran gawked at it once more when they passed it by. "How do you do something like that?" Doran demanded as they waited at the bus stop together.

"Oh… practice," Azalel said lamely. "Lots and lots of practice."

"That's what everyone says," he complained.

"Well, it's true. I wasn't able to make a sculpture the first day of learning how to do art."

"What other kinds of art do you do?" Dana asked suddenly.

Azalel smiled at her. "Oh, sculpture, obviously, painting, sketches, dance, song, stained glass… mosaics… I love art."

"You can sing?" Chris said, surprised.

"Oh, yes. I love to sing."

"You'll have to sing for us today."

"Oh… okay… I suppose…" Azalel ducked her head, blushing. She had only sung for her father before, and that was it. He loved to listen to her sing. Others had tried to make her, but she was just too shy to do so. "I need to go see Mrs. Salle today," she added.

"Mrs. Salle?"

"My teacher, Ms. Boone."

"Oh." A strange look came over Dana's face, as if thinking about something particularly sickening.

"What?"

"Oh… nothing."

"You don't like Mrs. Salle, do you?"

Dana waved the question away as the bus came rolling to a halt in front of them. "Bye!" Doran called, waving enthusiastically as he trotted up the steps.

All three of them waved. "Have fun, Doran," Azalel called.

"It's not that we don't like her," Chris said as they trudged up to the house. "She's the one who made you run away."

"She is? I thought _you _were."

They both winced. "I admit we were bad parents," Chris continued. "But she's the one who told you that you couldn't ever see your friend 'Zaral' or whatever his name was again. You got upset and ran out the door."

"His name's _Xarral._ And I didn't know that."

"Well, I guess your 'Father' doesn't know everything."

"Did I ever say he did? He wasn't there when that happened; he couldn't have known. Anyway, I still need to see her. I promised her husband."

Dana nodded. "I suppose you have that right."

They trooped inside and Azalel gave Mrs. Salle a call. If she had still been a teacher she would have been at the school, but she had long given up such a job and was now a stay-at-home mom with her little daughter, Kristine. Mr. Salle called out of work in order to meet Azalel properly, and the three packed into the car to drive down to their home. It took a little while—they got lost a few times, as their house was at the far corner of the next town over—but eventually they pulled up the driveway.

Azalel immediately knew something was wrong. A cold aura seemed to seep from every window of the house, from every crack and niche and door. It stank of death.

"Wait," she managed to say; her voice was a mere croak. "Something… there's something wrong."

Chris glanced back. "What's the matter?"

"Wait," she said again. Slowly she unbuckled her seatbelt and opened the door. Chris and Dana got out behind her, looking at her strangely. She ignored them. She felt like she was in some sort of dream as she reached for the doorknob and turned it.

"Shouldn't we knock?" Chris said uncertainly. Azalel paid no attention to him. As soon as the door was open a gust of coldness took her over, and she knew exactly what they would find were they to enter. "Oh, gods," she whispered, her knees buckling. She sat hard on the threshold.

Confused and worried, the two adults helped her up. They ventured a little further into the living room then the kitchen, where they froze in complete shock.


	7. Ghost Program

Mr. and Mrs. Salle and their daughter lay dead on the floor, eyes open and vacant. Mr. Salle was still in his police uniform which was soaked in blood, shading it purple. The source of the blood was four gaping holes to his chest. Mrs. Salle's neck was twisted at an unnatural angle so that she was looking behind her; her body turned to the right and her head to the left. Blood trickled from her mouth. Kristine's face was smashed in. From the looks of things, they had been sneaked up on and killed only perhaps from half an hour to a few minutes ago—from when Azalel had gotten off the phone with Mrs. Salle to when they had pulled into the driveway.

And as Azalel stared at the bodies, she knew—the killer was still here.

"We have to go," she gasped. Chris and Dana couldn't tear their horrified gazes away from the terrifying spectacle. "Chris, Dana, please! We need to leave _now_!"

They snapped out of their reverie. In no place to argue—she had been right about there being something wrong, after all—they ran outside and into the car, but not before the adults paused to throw up in the front lawn.

Azalel was in too much shock to throw up. Pale and shaking, she sat in the back seat of the car as Dana called the police. Within minutes they were there, crawling all over the house.

"Victoria Routhe?" asked a deep voice. For a moment she ignored it, forgetting that that had been her former name. Then she pulled herself out of the mental trench she had been wallowing in and forced herself to focus. "Yes?"

A police officer crouched at her side. "My name is Officer Riley. Inspector Quinn over there wishes to speak to you," he said solemnly. He hesitated and then added, "Officer Salle was a friend of mine—and Mrs. Salle was always there to help. They're… they were good friends of all of us." He stopped himself from saying more… then seemed to decide what-the-hell. "Mr. Salle… he was part of the renegade group. There are sayings already that he was killed because they found out."

Azalel was slammed into sudden reality. The renegades. The group of hackers, synthetics, the cybernetically enhanced, tech-pirates, and criminals—in order to retain the peace and continue with Earth's United Powers League—colonize the outlying planets where they flourished, creating their own government and securing countless of planets beyond the Milky Way solar system before contacting with the Zerg and the Protoss.

This wasn't another dimension. This was the _past_.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

The officer nodded, then straightened. "Inspector Quinn is over there," he said, pointing to one of the cop cars. She thanked him and walked slowly over, where a pale, scarred young man with white-blonde hair looked up and smiled at her.

His smile was cold and distant, and although he tried to make himself look warm and inviting, she couldn't help but shy away from his icy blue chips for eyes. "Hello, Miss Routhe," he said coolly.

"Azalel," she said automatically.

"I beg pardon?"

"My name is Azalel. Not Victoria Routhe."

He studied her for a moment, then nodded abruptly. "Very well. Let's go for a walk, Miss Azalel."

She bit her lip and followed him as he strode away from the flashing lights and the _Crime Scene—Do Not Cross _tape. Azalel glanced back to see Dana and Chris standing near one of the other cars, leaning against it and drinking something hot. The officers were comforting them.

"Let's get to the point," Inspector Quinn said when they were nearly forty feet away from the bustle of activity, but Azalel interrupted him.

"You're not an inspector, are you?"

He turned to face her completely, gazing straight into her eyes. Suddenly she felt as if she were under some sort of scan; his eyes seemed to burn through her mind. He smiled thinly. "Quite the perceptive young girl, aren't you?"

She was about to speak but he silenced her. "Or are you a telepath?"

Azalel froze. Everything became cold. "You're—" She took a deep breath. "You're a Ghost."

"And how would you know that?"

"Cut the shit," she snapped, startling both herself and him. "You ordered those two murdered, if you didn't kill them yourself."

He studied her. "Perhaps."

"Oh, gods." It made sense. Telepathic Terrans had been around for thousands of years; they didn't just appear. Shamans, psychics, medicine men—they were all telepaths. And for thousands of years, the various governments had been training them to be assassins and weapons. "Why did you kill them?"

"They had to be killed. Mr. Salle knew too much about the alien phenomenon; as you told him about. He was also in league with the Renegades."

Her eyes widened. "How did you know about that? He said it was off the record!"

"Fortunately—well, _un_fortunately for him, there were other cameras and recorders in the room. We picked up everything up to and including a pin drop."

Azalel shuddered, backing away. She was the reason that Mr. Salle was dead. She was to blame.

"Quite right," The so-called "Inspector" said, and she realized he had been reading her mind. "You cause more trouble then you think, and more than you mean to."

Azalel slammed walls up in her mind, detaching herself completely from his questions and statements. The walls, designed, trained, and strengthened by Xarral, would stop almost everyone up to a powerful enough Protoss. He stepped back in surprise, his eyes widening, and she felt a surge of triumph.

"Interesting," was all he said, recovering quickly. "So your 'father' has taught you how to use your telepathy. Very interesting indeed. Perhaps he is telepathic himself? Or is he one of the aliens?"

"Protoss are telepathic at birth," she said coldly, then mentally kicked herself.

"So we know their name. Very good." The Ghost smiled thinly, his eyes still burning into her own. "I'll make a proposition to you. You tell me all you know about the Protoss, and come with me to the government to be trained as a Ghost—"

"Fat chance."

"—and we will spare your family."

Her distant mind became sheathed with ice.

She couldn't. She knew everything about… well, everything! This was her own _history_; she couldn't! They could _not _know what was going to happen; it would destroy the entire timeline!

But Dana! Chris and Doran! They weren't good parents, and Doran would probably grow up to be just like them, but she couldn't just leave them to be killed! "I…"

"Make up your mind quickly, Miss Azalel," the Ghost said, and she could feel his triumph at the victory. "Contact this number when you have made a decision. You have three hours." He passed her a small square piece of paper and she took it numbly, then turned and walked back to the remaining cop cars.

She returned to the adults' side, white and trembling. Still in shock by what they had just seen, they didn't notice her quietly standing by them, and the police thought she was just upset from the murders.

The sun was climbing to full noon when they were finally allowed to drive home in a tense silence. It had been an hour and forty-six minutes. Azalel clutched the card in her trembling fingers, trying to think. She couldn't put her family in danger, but she also couldn't allow herself to be turned into a Ghost; not with her knowledge. What was she to do?

"Dana," she said. "Chris."

Dana turned in the passenger seat, glancing back to look at her. Her voice was strained as she replied, "What is it?"

"The killer threatened to kill you too if I didn't comply with his wishes." She said it point-blank, unable to think of another way to explain it to them. "I'm not going to let them take me, but I also can't let them kill you. What do I do?"

Chris was about to completely disregard his daughter's claims, but seemed to remember that she had known Mr. and Mrs. Salle were dead before they even approached the house. "What do you want us to do?" he asked instead. "What _can _we do?"

Dana asked what they were really thinking. "Why were they murdered?"

"Because they knew the truth. They knew what really happened that night near the dock. They couldn't be allowed to live with the truth. Or so he said."

"Or so _who _said?"

"The murderer. Or the man who ordered them killed. Whichever he was, he's dangerous and he knows what he's doing. He's called a Ghost—a trained killer and secret operative."

Chris slowed and stopped at the side of the highway. He put on his emergency lights, pulled up the brake, and turned around. "How do we know what your saying is true?"

Azalel looked right into his eyes. "Because you were there, too. You know exactly what happened at the dock. You _know_ there wasn't a boat with a man there who took me away. You know that." When they both started to speak, she raised her hand. "No. Stop. Everyone here should know that there are secret divisions of government which the population knows nothing about. This is the most powerful of them: the Ghost Project, named because that's exactly what they are—they kill and cut into places you wouldn't even think about without being seen."

"You're starting to sound like the renegades," Dana muttered.

Azalel took a deep breath. "I know. They can help you," she said, her words distant and numb.

"What?"

"They can help you. Go to your son. Pick him up from school early and tell him you're going to visit a relative or a friend or whatever—but drive straight to the nearest Renegade headquarters. Contact…" she thought a moment. "Officer… what's-his-name. Officer Riley. Ask him for information." The words seemed to be spilling from her mouth like water; she realized she was desperate to save her family.

The two adults were staring at her as if she had grown an extra head. "They're _terrorists_," Dana managed to say.

She nodded gravely. "They can also protect you. If you tell them the truth—that the Ghosts from the government were chasing you—they'll let you in. Or should."

"Is…" Chris licked his lips. "Is your father part of the Renegades?"

"No."

"Then how do you know all this?"

History lessons, she wanted to say, but instead replied, "Everyone knows that they hate the government. If you tell them that the government is out to kill you, they'll happily accept another family. It's just common sense."

When they made no reply she burst out, "Look, do you want to get Doran out of danger, or do you want to wait until he's lying on the floor with a hole in his chest?"

That got them moving. Chris turned back around and pulled onto the highway again, and they went the rest of the way in silence. They stopped and picked up Doran, who was ecstatic because he got to get out of school early, and went home.


	8. The Escape

It took them only a few minutes to come up with a plan, and it was set in action.

"Doran," Azalel called, standing by the phone. "Come here, please."

The little boy trotted over, beaming up at her. "Yeah?"

She knelt, absently fixing his coat. "I need absolute silence when I'm on the phone, okay? You need to be _silent._"

He sighed and shrugged, probably having heard that a thousand times. Azalel set her eyes on his, forcing her will upon him. _Silence._

"Okay. Why do I hav'ta wear my coat indoors?"

"Your parents will explain that to you. Now be quiet." Nervously, her palms sweating, she dialed the number on the card she had been given. It rang four times before someone picked up. "Hello?"

"_Miss Azalel. Have you made your decision?"_

She wasn't surprised he knew it was her. "You didn't give me much choice."

"_No, I didn't. But you are quite a powerful telepath, and you will be a wonderful asset to the Project."_

Powerful? Azalel was momentarily taken off guard. Father told her she was only telepathic because of her being around Protoss most of her life. She wasn't powerful! Maybe he was just trying to get her hopes up…?

"I'm so glad," she said, sarcastically. "Just what I always wanted."

Silence.

"Do I… it would be better if I met you somewhere. Chris and Dana are still in shock."

"_Very well."_ She was about to suggest something when he continued, _"There is a park half a mile to the southeast of the house. Meet me there in fifteen minutes."_

Click.

Azalel returned the phone to the cradle, took a deep breath, and turned to the others. They were staring at her, pale and afraid. She knelt to be face-to-face with Doran, who was slowly realizing that all was not as it should be. "We're going away," she told him quietly. "You're going to visit someone, and I'm going away somewhere else."

"Will I ever see you again?" he asked.

She considered lying, but her mouth betrayed her. "No."

His eyes filled. "Why not?"

"Oh, Doran," she whispered. How was she to explain? She gathered him in a hug, holding him tight. Her little brother… "I'm going somewhere you'll never see. I have to go home."

"But you _are _home!"

"No, I'm not. I belong somewhere else. But, Doran, you can do something for me."

He looked at her, hopeful. "What?"

"Keep your mind free. Keep it open. Never, ever let someone tell you something you usually wouldn't believe. Do you understand?"

Doran nodded. "Okay."

"Okay, or you understand?"

"I understand."

"Good." Azalel rose with a final squeeze to the little boy, and looked at his parents.

"Azalel," Dana said softly. Azalel stared at her—it was the first time she had been addressed by name, and especially the name her father had given her. "I just wanted to say… I'm sorry. For everything."

"For being bad parents," Chris added. "For ignoring you. We loved you, we really did… and we still do. We're sorry for not expressing our love."

Azalel turned to face them completely. "You have been honorable parents to Doran," she said. "That's all that's important to me." She bowed from the waist, the way her father taught her. "En Taro Tassadar."

Then, ignoring their confused expressions and not letting them see how their apologies had affected her, she turned and walked outside.

_Southeast_, the Ghost had said. Half a mile. It was half a mile closer to the Halloway's house with the dock.

Halfway home.

On the way of the ten-minute walk, she built a wall around her mind as powerful as it had been a few months ago when she hid from everyone in the tree. She distanced herself from everything—from where she was going to what her family was doing to what might happen—only focusing on the _here _and _now._ It was getting steadily easier to do such things, and again she wondered—distantly—what the Ghost had meant when he was speaking about how "powerful" she was. What did he mean? Was he just really weak?

Her hand crept up to touch the lump the Khaydarin crystal made under her coat. Was it because of that? Azalel remembered the cool focus that had poured into her body when she had first physical contact with it. Since Xarral had never let her touch it, she had never felt anything like it before.

It might be it. As a matter of fact, it _must _be it.

Azalel stopped. She was in the middle of the park, between the swing set and the jungle gym. Directly in front of her, beyond the see-saw, was the forest leading towards the dock. Her senses were increased tenfold; she knew immediately when the Ghost approached her and she turned to face him.

"I'm glad you made the right decision," he said, gazing at her with those ice-cold blue chips.

She said nothing, her mind drifting like the current beyond her enhanced physical senses. He frowned, searching for her, but her mind slipped from his grasp like water. She didn't fight; didn't focus on his words at all. If he were Protoss he would have been able to reach her as they themselves were built around their telepathy.

"Follow me," he said, perturbed, then turned and began to walk away. She obeyed silently, and for the first time she noticed a nondescript little dark blue car at the side of the road. She didn't want to get in that car, so she slammed a kick into the back of the Ghost's knees, then turned and ran.

The Ghost was up faster than she would have been; then again, he was trained to accept and ignore intense pain. Even with a sprained knee he was able to run.

Azalel was pumping her legs as fast as possible as she entered the forest. Leaves crackled and snow crunched underfoot as she followed parallel to the road, heading directly southeast. She felt as if she were floating; her feet were a blur as she leaped over fallen logs and ducked under snow-laden branches, weaving amongst the trees, used to running after her friends at home through the woods.

But where was the Ghost? Suddenly Azalel was afraid. She sensed others—not Ghosts, but soldiers, perhaps?

She was three-quarters of the way home. Just one quarter of a mile left…

There was a sharp report as something fired to her right—a silenced gun. She actually felt the breeze as it missed her by mere centimeters.

Bullets? Were they _shooting _at her?

Another gun went off, this time from behind her. It went between her knees, hitting a fallen trunk and sticking there. Azalel barely saw it as she whipped past.

A dart. They were darts; they wanted to tranquilize her.

Sudden real fear trickled through her brain. They might actually catch her! Her fear slammed her into reality, and abruptly she was in her own mind, her senses back to normal. Panic surfaced and fed into her body, and she ran faster. There were others around her, and all they had to do was tackle her and she was theirs. Or she might hit a patch of ice and slip and they'd have her.

She couldn't let it happen. She _wouldn't_.

Freezing air burned in her lungs and her nose ran violently. Small needles whizzed past her, missing her each time by centimeters. She ran in zigzags, ducking and weaving, knowing that it would take her longer to get to the dock when she did so.

A dart flashed by her right eye, startling her into hesitating before making her next step. She felt gloved fingers graze her wrist and panicked, leaping forward—and suddenly she was in a clearing, with the house in front of her. It flashed past—she saw a car there, but thank the gods it wasn't the Halloway's car; they were out; at least their deaths wouldn't be on her hands as well—and she was pounding down the well-known path, her mind only fixed on one thing: the warp gate. And then there was the dock—

And the Ghost leapt lightly from the forest to stand directly in her path.

They had known exactly where she'd go. That car she'd seen—it was the Ghost's.

She hesitated in mid-step, stumbling, defeat clouding her brain. He smiled in triumph. Behind her, she knew the soldiers were gathering, waiting for the signal to shoot should she prove to be too strong to be taken down by him.

Merely five feet from the dock.

Azalel shuddered to a halt, swaying, exhausted.

"Now, Miss Azalel," the Ghost said, stepping forward. "Come along with us. I'm afraid that this little exercise has cost you your family's life."

"You won't… find them," she gasped. "They're… gone."

His brow furrowed; only a little, and it was there for only a split second, but it was there. He hadn't been expecting that. She smiled at him, the same frozen smile he had given her, and leaped.

Hitting his chest, she drew her legs up and smacked his chin with her booted feet. He toppled back and they rolled down the slight slope towards the dock. The Ghost had the immediate advantage; he reached up and snagged her throat in one hand and squeezed. She began to choke the same moment they reached the dock and rolled onto it.

_She is being followed, _a Protoss technician said as the two combating figures rolled into range of detection, his fingers moving about the controls.

_By who?_ Xarral demanded, stepping forward. Time went the same here as it did on the other side of the gate, as their planet had almost exactly the same length of days. By now the crowd was gone, but when Xarral showed signs of distress they began to gather again, Tolar and his friends being the first to come.

_Unknown Terrans. One has grabbed her and they are wrestling. Activating warp gate._

The same hum filled the air as the huge structure sprang to life.

Bright light filled the little clearing. Momentarily blinded, the Ghost loosened his crushing hold on Azalel's throat. She took the window of opportunity and tore away, lunging for the glowing doorway.

But just then, something went wrong. On the other side, the technicians desperately strove to correct the imbalance in vain. Where Azalel stood nothing happened save a barely distinguishable shift in the tune of the humming noise, so microscopically insignificant that no ear, Terran or Protoss, could have perceived it. So Azalel, unknowing, leaped into the glowing light and ended up slammed into the ground, the wind knocked out of her as small darts flew through the gate behind her. One pricked her calf and immediately she doubled over to brush it away.

It was too late. Drowsiness overcame her senses and her head dropped to the ground. In a last effort she pushed herself over to lie on her back—

—and saw nothing but dark velvet sky full of stars she didn't know. As her eyes closed, she realized she was not lying on metal or cobblestone; she was on cold rock and dirt.

This wasn't home. This wasn't home at all…


	9. Oh Gods, Are Those Zerg?

_WHAT HAPPENED?_

All those in the area winced. High Templar Xarral, his eyes sparking, was on the edge of wild fury. He paced back and forth, barely listening to the explanation.

_The same thing happened to the warp gate as it did ninety-two years ago. There was a power surge in the—_

_How do I get my daughter back!_

"We're figuring out when and where she was ejected now."

Xarral stopped pacing to face the giant humming machine, clenching and unclenching his hands. He felt a presence at his shoulder and glanced behind him to find the Dark One, Patriarch Zeratul, standing there silently. He placed a hand on Xarral's shoulder; an attempt to comfort him.

Xarral shook his head. _My daughter, _was all he had to say, and Zeratul nodded in understanding.

"We found her," a Terran technician called, leaning over a console.

_Where? When?_

"She's on Shakuras… five hundred eleven years ago."

A cold weight seemed to drop into Xarral's chest.

Shakuras.

They had transported _his daughter_ to the battle of Shakuras, just after they had evacuated the Khalai survivors from Aiur in order to save them. He sagged, dropping to his knees, his horror rising. _Gods… _he whispered, swaying.

_There is a way, _another technician said, almost tentatively.

He lifted his head. _How?_

"We can put you through to Shakuras… but we have no idea of when you'd come out. You could get there at the present day, two years ago, right before Azalel showed up or even before the Dark Templar were exiled from Aiur."

_Please understand, it is a very experimental procedure and has enormous risk._

Hope had already blossomed in Xarral's heart. _Yes, _he breathed. _Do it. I must take that risk._

"Are you—"

_Yes! Do it!_

The warp gate opened. Xarral got to his feet.

_Wait, _Tolar cried, stepping forward. _Let me come with you. I can help._

_No, young one, _Xarral replied, glancing back at him. _Stay here. Stay safe._

_No, I can—_ Xarral turned away and leapt through the warp gate. Tolar let out a soft angry cry.

Zeratul closed his eyes silently, remembering battles almost forgotten. He remembered what had happened, all those years ago, as they unfolded yet again…

Azalel opened her eyes.

Pale fingers of the sunrise were tracing their way across the sky, creating soft shadows upon the rocks. It was gentle and beautiful, and completely topped the stones that were digging into her back, which were decidedly _not _gentle. Biting her lip, she pushed herself upright and groaned at the bruises that had formed dots all over her back.

She was berating herself for falling asleep on the ground outside, and not on soft grass, when she remembered where she was. Her eyes widened and she stood, brushing dirt off her backside, to look around.

It was a desert. Red sand and dirt and clay stretched out for miles, decorated by pale green bushes, and in the far distance she could see cliffs and mountains. Thinking of practical things, such as water and shade when the sun became too hot to bear, she began to trot towards these mountains. Her body ached from the bruises and from her mad dash the day (and about one thousand years) before, so it hurt to move. But she was used to that; years of running around with her friends for hours on end and then doing the same exact thing the next day had prepared her. Her throat was tender where the Ghost had held it, so she practiced steady breathing on the way towards the cliffs. The whole way she did things to keep her mind off what she was really thinking—

Where _was _she? More importantly, when?

The day began to get much hotter and Azalel began to pant her tongue swelling and sweat dripping down her face. She wasn't worried about sunburn—she spent most of her days outside, in the sun, and her body was well browned. But this was _hot_! Not humid, like it had been on Aiur, but there was nothing to shade the sun. Was she on Char? Was that it? Not to mention her heavy boots and warm clothes made it worse; she stripped as much as she could.

After noon she came upon a large boulder that had an overhang about four feet above the ground. Azalel stumbled over to it and collapsed in the welcome shade, her legs weak and trembling and her already-sensitive throat burning. As the sun sank behind the boulder, she closed her eyes. The thoughts that she had kept at bay during the day came back full-force and she began to whimper, burying her head in her hands and pulling up her knees.

"I just want to go home," she whispered to no one. "That's all. Home."

Thinking of the beautiful planet with her little cottage she shared with her father at the edge of the small community, she began to cry softly, and her tears slowly guided her into sleep.

She awoke to something like scales gliding across a hard surface. Cracking one swollen, aching, sticky eyelid open, Azalel saw that it was pitch-black out. Midnight, or if not close to it. If she wanted to be at the mountains before another one of those scorching days, she would have to move quickly. Reaching out she pulled herself slightly forward, ready to drag her body out of the overhang and begin her walk.

Just then an inexplicable_ bad feeling_ came over her at the exact same time as that something scraped the rock again, just above her. She froze, listening. It moved again, and this time something gleaming and undoubtedly sharp moved to hang over the ledge right in front of her face.

It was a claw, if claws grew two feet long. It shone in the double moonlight like it was made of metal. And then it went farther down, stabbing into the sand and dirt and sparse plants, lodging itself into the soil. Another came down a few feet from the first, and the angles of which they were in the dirt began to decrease as if weight were being put on them. The scraping sound came again, and a serpentine body followed the claws.

They weren't claws. They were enormous scythes, and the creature that slipped off the boulder directly above her was a Hydralisk.

Azalel's mouth went dryer than it was already in revulsion. She had heard that Zerg were so horrible that it made strong, grown Marines quake in terror, and she had seen holographic life-size pictures at school, but nothing could have prepared her for a real one standing only three feet or so from her. Its carapace was dark red and its eyes burned savagely crimson through the darkness. It looked this way and that, uncomfortably keenly as it could see in the dark, and let out a soft hiss.

Immediately the ground trembled, and to her right Azalel saw another, different monster pop up from the earth, shaking dirt from its hide. This one was much smaller and stood on four feet, but the scythes were the same sprouting from the back. And then another, to her left, and then three more… how long had they been there? Had they already been underground when she had collapsed for rest?

When they began to move Azalel could count twenty-four—six Hydralisks and the rest Zerglings. The Hydralisks stood like a calm eye of the storm in the middle, hunched over with eyes burning in all directions, seeking something. The Zerglings ran in circles like little insects, making sharp chittering sounds. One even paused right in front of Azalel, sweeping its head back and forth and tapping its many blades on the ground. She cringed back, not quite daring to move but trying to shrink into the earth. After a moment it moved on.

Suddenly one of the Hydralisks jerked, gasped, and collapsed to the ground, brown and red ichor spewing from a gaping hole in its chest. The remaining Hydralisks spun, searching for the source of the attack.

They couldn't see it—but Azalel sure could. A ripple in the air betrayed a fuzzy outline of something or someone as it attacked again, this time cutting the head off a Zergling. But then another Hydralisk fell—from a different direction.

Dark Templar! Azalel was sure of it. As they slaughtered the Zerg she considered pulling herself out of the alcove of rock and presenting herself to them, but abandoned the idea. If she was in a place where there were Zerg, she may be in a time where the Protoss and Terrans had not become allies yet. So she watched, silent, as the remaining Zerg backed up and formed a circle, flailing blindly against the air in hopes of catching their invisible tormenters.

Something caught Azalel's eye and she turned slightly, trying to get a better look at it. It was an Overlord, speeding quickly to get in range.

The breath caught in her throat. She opened her mouth to let out a warning call but the Overlord was already in position. The Dark Templar, thus revealed, doubled their attack but there were only four of them. Eight Zerglings managed to tear one of them apart. Two others fell to the combination of Hydralisk spines and of the smaller Zerg cutting at their legs. They burst into psionic flames, searing the Zerg into backing up—Azalel had never seen a Protoss die before, and it seemed majestic, even beautiful.

One of them seemed older than the rest and thus stayed alive longer. He spun, crushing one Zergling with a forceful kick, decapitating another with his psi-blade, throttling another with his remaining hand. He danced to the side as one of the two remaining Hydralisks spat spines in his direction, missing him and killing two Zerglings. All in all he was doing very well.

Until the other Hydralisk came up behind him and with one slash with the enormous blades at the end of both limbs sliced off the Dark Templar's psi-blade arm. It fell with a splash of blue blood to the ground as the warrior let out a short telepathic scream of agony. Then he was cut down, the Hydralisk behind him stabbing him through the chest. As he collapsed his head turned to the side, and he ended up gazing directly at Azalel. His brow drew up slightly in surprise, and then he died, the blaze of his telepathic fire dazing the Hydralisk above him and leaving a faint scorch mark on the earth.

Almost immediately the Zerg started to run (or slither, or gallop) towards the mountains, so fast and so abruptly that Azalel blinked her eyes to make sure they were actually moving. Within minutes they were gone, swallowed up in the darkness. The Overlord followed them.

Azalel stayed in her position until the slimy bad sensation dissipated, then crawled out of her hiding place and huddled shaking on the ground, staring at the bloodied arm still twitching on the ground.

For a long time she stared at it, feeling a quiet sorrow that was heavy on her bones. She couldn't just leave the arm there—it seemed disgraceful and ungrateful for the brave warriors. If they had not shown up when they did, the Zerg, being attracted to telepaths, would have almost certainly found her and either killed or infested her. So she picked it up—the limb was completely limp now, dead; the blood had stopped pumping from the severed artery. She studied it with a strange distance; after seeing the mutilated bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Salle, this seemed a poor second. After a while she stirred herself and stripped it of its psi-blade for no apparent reason rather than to study it; her father never let her handle his own psi-blades for reasons known only to him. Then she buried the arm in the middle of the little battlefield, waited a silent moment in respect to the Templar, and moved away.

Crouching once again in the overhang of the boulder, she examined the bracer carefully. It was black; different from a regular Templar's bracer in every way. Where her father's was made of a bronze-gold metal and had a smooth, almost ceremonial appearance, this was obviously built only for use.

Curiously Azalel slipped the smooth band of metal around her wrist. It fit about halfway up her forearm, as that was about the thickness of a large Protoss' wrist.

What if she were to heat it up so it could bend, then shape it to fit on her arm? Would a fire be hot enough; if she were to put it in the middle of it? Was she able to even activate it? Closing her eyes, Azalel took a deep breath and exhaled, calming herself down. She searched for all sorts of triggers in her mind, trying to find if anything had changed. It hadn't.

Maybe it had something to do with the cords that came out the back. Azalel tugged them to hang over one shoulder and around the back of her neck to drape over the other one. Again, nothing.

Meanwhile, the sky had begun to lighten. It had been at least six hours since the Zerg had departed, and if they weren't gone she didn't know what would drive them away. She needed to scale those cliffs and search for water. So she set off, trudging through the sand dunes and along the dry, cracked dirt.

Around mid-afternoon she reached the giant stone walls. Now she faced a dilemma. Would it be better to climb them now, when she was parched and weak after her long walk, or later, when she was even weaker from the lack of water?

Something let out a harsh sound above and behind her and she spun, expecting more Zerg. But—no—it was some sort of bird, both purple and red, wheeling circles about in the sky, letting out a cry that echoed off the cliff walls. The strangest thing was she had seen such a thing before. But where?

It came to her suddenly. A karkaru. It was a karkaru!

She was on Shakuras!

Relief poured into her bones. At least she knew where she was, and around what time. Five hundred and eleven years ago, on Shakuras, sometime after when the Zerg had come through the warp gate on Aiur. At least now she could approach the Protoss without fear of being killed. Then the relief slowly ebbed away, filled with anxiety. She was no better off than she was before, knowing that, unless she met some Protoss. "Help me," she called in desperation up at the circling creature.

Whether it be that the animal sensed her fear or it was startled from hearing her voice, or simply was bored with circling in one place, it nevertheless finished wheeling and flapped away. Azalel followed, her previous exhaustion almost forgotten. The bird/prehistoric reptile led her to a much less steep wall, with plenty of crags for handholds. She brightened and looked up at the circling karkaru.

"Thank you," she called, putting as much gratitude as she could in her voice and thoughts. The karkaru called out again and began to fly lazily away. Azalel immediately struck out, climbing the huge cliff.

When the sun was sinking down to her right she topped the rise and found herself facing a wide expanse of… more mountains. Above, karkari flew about, centralizing on a certain crag. One of them wheeled down to get a drink from a mountainside stream. Gulping the cool water, it glanced up and saw the girl perhaps thirty feet away and below, on a ledge underneath its own. It let out an echoing call to warn its fellows, and the creature's head whipped around. As the creature scrambled up to the rock it was perched on, the karkaru flapped a few feet away and watched.

Azalel gulped the water from the little stream, more and more and more until she was sated and sleepy. She looked up at the karkaru, who cried out at her, angry that she had taken so much for herself.

"I'm sorry," she said, bowing her head. The karkaru stopped wailing and studied her, then flapped its wings twice and lowered its own head to look at her. It felt something then—had the strange two-legged creature thanked it? It felt nice. So it left her alone, and Azalel retreated so the others would not be too frightened of her as to not drink any water. She sat in the shade of another overhang, leaning back against the cool rock, watching the sun slowly sink into the horizon. She began to sing quietly, a song she herself had composed, that her father loved.

_My thoughts wander_

_And disappear in the silence_

_Flying high amongst the stars_

_To find that special place of meaning._

_There_

_I can stretch my imagination thin_

_And let it cover the universe_

_In its sweeping blanket of night and day_

_To everything in between the horizon_

_Where the sun touches the earth tentatively,_

_Then settles, growing more comfortable._

_I want to find that secure spot_

_Where even the sun rests_

_Before it heaves itself back out_

_To travel beyond the stars again…_

The song made more sense in Protoss, the original language she had wrote it in. But right now it didn't matter: the song calmed her, and even the karkari paused in their mad flight to listen. After that they were not so noisy, and were not so frightened of her.

Azalel took out the bracer. She wanted to find out how to operate it so much! She might not be able to, being a Terran, but she still wanted to know _how_. She put it on and concentrated on it. The cords coming out of the end twitched, and she stared. Maybe the cords were for catching those bits of psychic energy!

Suddenly she remembered her crystal. _It holds some of my memories, my concentration, and my power,_ Xarral had said. Maybe she could put his power into the blade, using his concentration! She closed her eyes and concentrated again; not on the bracer this time but on the crystal. Unbeknownst to her, the cords were slowly moving, searching for the source of the power, reaching for the crystal.

Azalel felt a burst of power and opened her eyes. Over her thin wrist, a faint blue shimmer had stretched itself from the bracer. The cords had coiled themselves around the crystal.

She felt like laughing, or crying. She had done it! Just barely, but she had done it. Now all she had to do was find a way to mold the circle of metal securely around her wrist instead of her forearm.

Now that she was satisfied with water, she felt stronger and was able to climb back down the hill. She gathered a few handfuls of grass and uprooted a dead bush, then climbed up to her original perch, arranging a circle of grass as tinder and some branches around it on the ledge. Taking a small flat piece of wood, she wrapped grass around it and began to roll a stick between her palms against it. After ten minutes of vigorously rubbing, smoke began to rise. Another few minutes and flame licked up against the grass. Hurriedly she put more grass on it, then the bush. The fire began to burn in earnest, blasting her with heat. She moved away, put the rest of the branches on, and ran down to get more.

After half an hour or so of burning, red-hot embers burned at the bottom. As the karkari settled down to sleep, she pushed the bracer into the glowing coals and waited.

After another hour or so Azalel supposed that it would not get any hotter, she drew it out with a pointed rock. Shaking her head to clear it of the spots of watching it for so long, she looked up and jumped. Five of the karkari, their black eyes gleaming by the firelight, had come much closer to see what the strange glowing flame was. She was amazed they were not afraid; they crowded so close to her that she could feel the breath of one on her shoulder.

It seemed as if it were some kind of ancient ritual. The silent statues of the karkaru, the flames flickering high, the girl hunched over, watching the golden blaze as it heated the piece of metal sitting in the middle of it all.

But now she was faced with another problem. What was she to do with the bracer? Mold it to her wrist now? She could not wait, for it would cool quickly.

She made a quick decision. Setting the bracer on its side, Azalel put her arm through it just above the wrist so she could move it with ease, took another rock and placed it upon it, and shoved downward.

The agony almost made her scream. She doubled over with the torture, fighting to keep herself still, and pressing on the molding stone in various places until it was fit to her liking. By then she was nearly faint with pain and the fire had burned down to embers. The karkari still held silent ritual over her until she began to crawl towards the river. Then they parted noiselessly, watching her as she reached the stream and plunged her arm up her elbow in it. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe, it hurt so.

Slowly, though, the cold water began to numb the terrible burns. And slowly, she fell into sleep. The karkari, watching her, decided it was time to go and silently unfurled their wings, taking into the air.


	10. The PsiBlade and Dark Templar

Azalel awoke when it was midmorning, the sun rising directly in front of her. Her wrist no longer stung and burned, but throbbed in a slow beat of dull pain. She rose, dizzy, and looked at it. The flesh peeking out from under the band of metal was flaming red, and in some places already horribly scarred. She knew she would never be able to take it off without healer help.

Around her, karkaru were flying and calling, going about their daily activities. They completely ignored her, and that was fine with her. She drank as much as she could from the stream, knowing she'd need it. Then she sat and considered the bracer. She took off her shirt, allowed the cords to coil around her arm and her crystal, replaced her shirt, and went to work.

She managed to produce a tolerable psi-blade twice over the next forty-five minutes. After that time her head ached and she was exhausted; but she knew how to do it.

The days passed by; so many that Azalel finally gave up counting them. She simply existed; her entire life revolved around drinking lots of water and eating the tough vegetation of the desert below. Sometimes a fight between karkari dropped a nest, and she ended up eating the eggs. She had days to think, so that was what she did: she thought, and meditated, and contemplated her life, and her father's life. She remembered Xarral sitting for hours in a cross-legged position, eyes closed or half-closed, sometimes for an entire day. Now she understood why. After a while, she simply existed. Feeding herself and meditating didn't take any _doing_. It merely happened.

One day Azalel looked up to see the karkari acting oddly. They were all flying; none were resting. Usually one of a mated pair would keep their roost in order to safeguard it from other karkari. Now, they were all spinning, whirling madly in the air, crying their warning calls. Azalel, who had only heard a warning call once, wondered dimly what could possibly be frightening them so when one of them jerked, let out a choked gasp, and tumbled to the earth. Azalel hurried to its side to inspect the gaping wounds.

Several spines jutted out of its chest and head; its eyes were glazed over in death. Azalel pulled one free and inspected it. It was bone-white and razor-sharp at the tip, and perfectly straight. She knew what it was. Somewhere in her mind, she knew what it was… it was a Hydralisk spine. The Zerg were here. But why were they killing her brothers and sisters? Her mind whirling in confusion, she lunged to her feet and began to climb the cliff and soon reached the peak where she stood, framed by the screaming karkari who flew so close they brushed her with their wings.

There. Hundreds of Zerg, crowding and gibbering madly and climbing the mountains. The Hydralisks fired wildly at the animals, snarling and cackling with either glee or amusement as one after another karkaru fell. An Ultralisk tossed its head almost lazily, carving a karkaru in half with one of its tusks when it flew too close. Zerglings ran in crazy circles, furious that they could not participate in the senseless slaughter. None of them saw the Terran standing on the ridge before them.

Azalel whirled. Confused with the sudden attack, the karkari were not responding the way they aught to. They were still flying in circles, not diving and attacking their enemies with their full force or retreating. "Go," Azalel whispered. No one heard. Three more karkari flopped to the ground and the Zerg hissed in pleasure.

"Go!" Azalel cried, lifting her arms, searching for anything in her mind that would link her further with the creatures. "GO! Fly away!"

Either the karkari got their act together at the exact same time, or they understood her. They rounded themselves out, grabbed as many eggs as they could in their talons, and took to the air in an orderly withdraw like they were meant to. Perhaps they were animals, but they evidently had far more intelligence than the common dog.

Azalel's knees felt weak and she leaned against a rock in her relief. They were safe; at least for the time being.

A shadow fell over her. She looked up.

The Zerg had found her. A Hydralisk loomed over her, snarling in anger that she had interrupted their "play." Its scythes lifted, preparing to stab her into pieces.

What happened next Azalel didn't quite understand. It seemed like she activated the psi-blade, but with far more intensity than she could ever have managed before. And then the Hydralisk lay, beheaded and twitching, on the ground. The Zerg hordes were roiling towards her, an immense unstoppable wave. She stood and waited for them on the ridge, her mind still distant. When the first Zergling reached her she spun, cutting off its front legs then the claws on top of its back. It was trampled by its brethren as they surged forward, trying to get at her. Two more Zerglings died, and then a Hydralisk cut her left arm deep until it scraped the bone. It fell uselessly to her side, pumping blood. Fortunately it was not her sword arm. She stabbed the Hydralisk in the heart and it fell.

Then the full weight of the brood fell upon her and slowly dragged her down, pinning her arms and legs and holding her tight. They were going to infest her… the thought did not surprise her; nor did she panic. She simply observed them; the glowing red eyes of the Hydralisk leaning over her, the chittering Zergling who lay with its full weight on top of her stomach.

Suddenly the Hydralisk jerked and fell, the gray mass of its brain showing. The Zergling on top of her was jerked off and flung off the side of the cliff. The others were killed mercilessly; Azalel struggled to her feet to watch the carnage as invisible Dark Templar slaughtered the Zerg who, caught unawares, ran in circles trying to find them. The Hydralisks and Zerglings were quickly mopped up, but the Ultralisk, understandably, was a little more difficult to handle. It writhed and twisted, each turn of its head slicing up both Zerg stupid enough to get in the way and Dark Templar. They leapt onto its back and under its legs, slicing and cutting. Azalel ran to join in, ignoring the agony of her arm and over her chest and several other places she had no idea when it happened.

Something clamped over her arm, yanking her to a stop. She looked and saw—nothing. Yet something held her uninjured sword arm in a viselike grip. _Still, child, _said a voice, barely reaching her remote mind. _You have done enough._

But she _wanted_ to continue the fight. She wanted to get back at them for killing the karkari.

_Be still._

Beyond them the Ultralisk finally fell, its front legs buckling first, allowing the Dark Templar to vacate the space under it. Then its head jerked, blood spraying, and it died. The rest of the Zerg were mopped up quickly, and Azalel suddenly found herself surrounded by swiftly appearing Protoss, their many-hued eyes glowing as they assessed her. She looked back, dimly relieved. Well. At least she didn't have to live on the mountain anymore.

The Protoss were talking. _The Terran wears a psi-blade._

_She was using it as well. How did she manage that?_

_She may be a powerful telepath. I cannot tell; she is very far away._

_Perhaps that is best for now, considering her wounds._

Someone pulled her left arm out straight and wrapped cloth around it, tying it tight. They did the same with her chest and mopped up some of the blood from the more minor cuts. _Come, child, _one said, tugging her arm. She followed the tug, allowing the Protoss to accelerate her to a jog and then a run and soon they were all running in one direction, the Protoss circled around her protectively.

Hours later Azalel stumbled, exhaustion and the loss of blood slowing her down. Hands helped her upright and someone wrapped an arm around her waist. _Almost there, little Terran._

She couldn't go any more…

_Yes, you can. Come. _They slowed, allowing her to rest a little while. Then they sped up again. They entered a ravine and climbed another cliff, Azalel mimicking their movements until they were at the top, where they faced an enormous plateau. In the distance she could see blue lights… were those pylons?

_Yes._

Oh good…

It took them only a few minutes to race through the desert and enter the camp—camp? City!

They took her through it, earning stares and confusion from the Protoss there. Most were Dark Templar, but there were some High Templar there too, and Zealots, and Dragoons… and there was a Reaver… overhead, Scouts and Arbiters and Corsairs and enormous Carriers… Azalel searched vainly among the High Templar for a familiar face, but there was none…

Somewhere along the line they had lost the other Dark Templar, and it was just the one who held her up; a female warrior. They climbed the steps of a Nexus and stopped in the middle of the building. There they waited, Azalel at the point of collapse, until she saw movement in the shadows. Two Protoss stepped out into the open: one was younger and fierce-looking, and the other was older and aloof, wearing the elaborate robes of a Judicator. They approached them, the younger one coming much closer to gaze down at her. She stared back. She knew this one… she had seen this one's face before…

_Have you? _The Protoss said, peering at her. Then, _Yes, you have._

_How can we trust her? _The Judicator said suspiciously. _She was found in the mountains and she can wield a psi-blade! It's unnatural._

_She was also fighting Zerg. We will question her when she wakes up. _The Dark Templar reached down and touched her on the forehead. _Come back, little one, _he said softly. _You are too far away._

She felt something pull on her—

—and suddenly she slammed into her body, so hard that she swayed. Pain throbbed everywhere; she looked down and saw with confusion that she was leaking blood all over the place. "What… huh?" she managed to say, then collapsed out of sheer exhaustion. The other at her side scrambled to hold onto her.

Before she faded into sleep she saw the Dark Templar's face peering down at her, and it hit her all at once. _Zeratul. Aldaris…_

She closed her eyes.

_He cannot be expected to bring her back alone!_ Tolar raged, pacing angrily. Of all Azalel's friends, he was the only one who refused to leave. The others were made to by their parents, and Zeratul himself, to go home. Tolar had flatly refused, but told the others to leave. As he was the leader of their little group, they obeyed.

Zeratul watched quietly as Tolar quickly rode up to full battle-fury. The technicians pulled away from him, but the Patriarch walked up to him. _Peace, young Tolar._

_I can't. I can't! She's alone on Shakuras and she may die! _he was afraid for not just Azalel, but of himself as well. Growing up in a time of peace he had never experienced the brunt of the Protoss' infamous battle-rage and was unused to the terrifying killer's nature. He wanted to lash out at something, _anything_, if it meant that the wrath would dissipate.

Zeratul had, obviously, experienced his first rage. He had also seen thousands of young Templar experience theirs. He understood. But it was not helping right now. He studied the adolescent, trying to think of something to say, when he saw an emotion festering underneath Tolar's anger. It was completely out of place, but comprehensible …

_You are in love with her, _he said simply. Tolar stopped pacing for a moment, nodded shortly, and continued pacing.

_Does she love you?_

_Leave her out of it. It doesn't matter right now. What matters is she's there alone!_ Tolar swung around, glaring at him. _You were there. You know how dangerous it is!_

_I do. But that cannot be helped now._

_Cannot be helped?_ Tolar cried, and before he knew it he had lashed a punch at the Patriarch's head. Zeratul caught it calmly, holding his fist in an immobilizing grip. Tolar yanked back, but he was held mercilessly. Tentacles of cold and darkness wrapped him up to his elbow, and Tolar gasped. _I understand your trepidation, _Zeratul said gently. _But you must use your head._

Tolar glared at him. The aged Protoss sighed, letting him go, and Tolar jerked away, rubbing his arm ruefully. _If you feel you must go, then go._ He stepped aside, clearing the way to the warp gate.

Tolar leapt through.


	11. A Terran in Midst of Protoss

The few days that she was unconscious Azalel found herself sitting in her chair in the living room of her house. She was reading something, but it didn't matter what. She looked around, confused. Had everything been a dream?

_Of course not, _said a familiar voice. She looked up. There was her father, sitting in his own chair, putting down whatever he was reading. _This is your construction._

"Father?" she whispered.

_No._

She shook her head. "You're a projection of my mind."

_That is true. But I am everything your father would be. _The Xarral-figure smiled, the bony plates on its face tightening and its eyes narrowing. _I am everything you know your father would know. And, since your subconscious knows what this construct here is, I am free to tell you._

"I don't get it."

_Yes, you do. _With one arm it indicated the room, the house. _This is your mind making sense of things you should not have, such as the Khaydarin crystal and your heightened psychic powers. Protoss do not need such things, as they understand them completely and thoroughly. But you are Terran, and Terrans need to make something physical in order to understand them. Hence, the house. This is your safe place, where you can hide from the world in the maze of your own mind._

"But why am I here?"

_I have just told you. You created this to feel more comfortable in your mind. It took several days, but here we are. Unfortunately, we only have a few minutes, as you must go outside. Your body is ready to wake up._

It pointed to the door. _We will have time to speak, but later. Go now._

So Azalel got up and opened the door, and stepped out into her own eyes opening.

The air in the room was cool and comfortable, and the bed was just firm enough that she didn't get a backache. But it wasn't her bed, she realized. And it wasn't her room.

_Ah. You are awake._ There was a Protoss there, a male Dark One with the white robes of a Healer. He reached forward and rested his large scaled hand on Azalel's forehead. _And your fever has gone completely. Excellent._

"I had a fever?" Azalel croaked.

_Yes. It broke around midnight. Can you sit up?_

"Uh… yeah… I think so." That would explain the weird-ass dream. Bracing herself on the bed, Azalel heaved herself up. The Healer curved an arm around her back to help her. "Thanks. How long have I been sleeping?"

_Four days. With your wounds, I would not have been surprised if you slept a week. It seems the Khaydarin crystal you own helped you heal. But only Protoss High Templar own such crystals, and I have never seen one so large or so powerful._ He tilted his head curiously, then shook himself and handed her a water container. She drank gratefully. _Are you in any pain?_

"Um, yeah. A little. I'm okay." When the Protoss gave her a severe look, she ducked her head and smiled a little. "Really. I'm fine. They're just cuts."

_Stand, and _I _will tell you if you are "fine." And they are not "just cuts." You have several broken ribs, a concussion, and some nerve burnout where that bracer is welded to your flesh. Stand!_

"Okay," she said, and swung her legs out of the covers. Propping them on the floor, she leaned on them gingerly, then stood erect, biting her lip against the sharp pains going through her bandaged arm and chest. She lifted her head and looked the Healer directly in the eye.

_Walk, _he said, hands behind his back, watching her closely. With a sigh she swung one leg forward and planted the foot on the ground. That was easy enough, but when she shifted her weight she almost fell over. Catching herself, she took another step, then another, her body becoming slowly smoother as if she was learning how to walk all over again. At the door she stopped, turned, and smiled at the Healer. He sighed. _Very well, _he said grudgingly. _Come, dress yourself, then you must meet Prelate Zeratul and speak with him and Judicator Aldaris. _She sensed a little irritation when he said "Judicator."

The Healer was beckoning to her with one hand, the other holding a pale blue robe. Suddenly she realized she was stark naked and stared down at her body, horrified.

The Healer chuckled. _I do not mind._

"No, but _I _do! You're a _man_!" She grabbed the robe and wrapped it around her body, slipping on the loincloth and the hastily-made bra strap, all the time scowling at the Protoss, who was visibly suppressing his laughter. "It's not funny!"

He was smiling. _As you say. Come, _and he walked out of the room. Pulling the robe closer—it was made for a Protoss, who had wider shoulders, and it was wrinkled and hanging—she followed. The Healer adjusted his stride until she could walk comfortably beside him, and brought her through a glowing bronze complex, passing Probes and Dark Templar until they stepped into the burning daylight of Shakuras' sun. There, the Healer stopped and looked down at her. _I must go back to my station; we are, after all, at war. _He stepped back and gestured; a Dark Templar materialized as he walked over. _Uran here will escort you to the Prelate and the Judicator. En Taro Adun._ He bowed and retreated.

The Dark Templar—Uran—approached her. _Please, follow. Prelate Zeratul is waiting._

She nodded and proceeded at a trot, her body slowly stretching out its kinks and aches as she warmed up. Across the camp they went, until Uran stopped. Panting, Azalel looked around. Suddenly the Prelate stood directly in front of her; she saw the Judicator coming over. Without waiting for him, Zeratul inclined his head and gestured to the relative shade under a huge mineral formation. _Shall we sit down?_ He asked as Uran walked away. He had stooped over so his face was level with hers, watching her speculatively with cool green eyes that held almost as just as much power as it had back home. _It is very hot, and I have received countless orders from the Healer that you do not tax yourself._

She grinned despite herself and nodded thankfully. The Judicator joined them, and they went to sit down in the shade. The Judicator, being his normal proud self, refused to sit but towered over them and glared at Azalel with glowing golden eyes.

_What is your name?_ Zeratul asked first, having settled himself comfortably in a cross-legged position.

"Victoria," she said, then bit her lip and looked down. Zeratul's eyes flickered, and she knew he knew she was lying. But Aldaris did not seem to notice.

_Victoria, were you in any way connected to the power surge we detected about a month ago? It had the same readings as a warp gate, and we were very confused._

A month ago? A _month_? "Wow," she muttered. "Uh… yes, I do… it was a warp gate, and I came through it. By accident," she added. "I wasn't supposed to show up here."

_Where were you supposed to "show up?"_

"Home."

_Where is that?_

_That does not matter, _Judicator Aldaris snapped, saving her from having to answer that in the future they only needed one warp gate to open a doorway to anywhere. He rounded on Azalel. _Where did you receive that Khaydarin crystal, and how did you learn to activate a psi-blade?_

Zeratul was giving Aldaris a death glare. When he turned back he nodded at her to continue.

"I'm a telepathic Terran who, ah, escaped the Ghost program." That, at least, was true. "I… I got the crystal from my… friend… and in the mountain there was a battle… Dark Templar were there, and one of their arms was cut off. I took it, and buried the arm, and took the bracer because I wanted to, well, experiment with it. I thought that maybe because of the crystal I might be able to make one. And I was right."

_This is an atrocity, _hissed the Judicator, eyes burning into her own. She went to look away, and found that she couldn't. Aldaris was searching her mind.

_Enough!_ Prelate Zeratul bellowed, leaping to his feet. _Judicator, may I remind you that you may be the highest of the Templar caste, but while here you will follow _our _laws. On Aiur searching someone's mind may be acceptable without consent, but here that is breaking one of our most sacred rulings._

Aldaris looked away, smoldering dangerously. Azalel was terrified; she drew herself back into the dark recesses of her mind and pulled the walls up again, becoming distant and isolated. Immediately she found herself in the cottage of her planet, the only safe place she could think of. Zeratul's head had whipped around when he sensed her pulling back, and by the time he crouched in front of her she was already in her little cottage, the door firmly locked.

_What are you doing? _The Xarral-figure was sitting in its chair again.

"Hiding."

_Why?_ It was angry. _They are trying to help! Get out there right now!_

Someone knocked on the door.

_That is Zeratul. Let him in or go out and meet him. He is being polite, but if you get him angry he can open it by himself and that will hurt both of us._

"I don't—"

_Now!_

She got up with a resigned sigh and unlocked the door, pulling it open. In stepped Zeratul, his eyes roving around the construct. _What is this?_

Azalel sighed again and gestured to the Xarral-figure, who stood and bowed. _This is a construct of her mind, created so that she would feel more at home in her mind._

"It's also my house," Azalel said. "Where I live… physically."

_Fascinating. _Being a scholar, he was truly interested. He cased the small enclosure, even going through the doorway to search the rest of the house. The Xarral-figure sat down again and began to read, but Azalel followed the Prelate. _My guess is you live with a Protoss, _Zeratul said, looking down at her when they reached the bedrooms.

"Yeah," she replied miserably.

_Why so sorrowful?_

"I want to come back here, for real. This is my home," she said softly, touching her bed longingly. "I don't want to be on Shakuras."

_I understand. _He placed a hand on her shoulder. Then, _Who is the Protoss?_

"He's a figure of my… friend." She wrapped her arms around herself. "He knows everything I know he knows, and… yeah."

_What is your "friend's" name?_

"I can't tell you," she said. "I can't tell you! Least of all, you!"

_Why?_

"I just can't, all right? It would change _everything_."

He stooped in front of her, staring directly into her eyes with his own glowing green orbs. She averted hers and stared at the beds, but Zeratul grasped her face firmly and pulled her head up so they stared eye-to-eye again.

The walls around them shivered; began to contract. Azalel yanked away and the beds jumped in front of her, blocking Zeratul from coming for her again. She turned and fled into the living room and instinctively jumped into the Xarral-figure's arms. It wrapped her in a hug, but that was only because she knew her father would do such a thing.

Zeratul stepped into the living room; the Xarral-figure shifted its grip protectively.

I want to go home, Azalel cried silently. I want to go _home_! However, there was no such thing as "silent" in her own mind and the cry echoed about and from the walls. Zeratul stopped.

_I take it this is the same "friend" who gave you the Khaydarin crystal? _He asked.

Yes, the walls echoed. Fearful of herself, Azalel extracted herself from the Xarral-figure's embrace and leapt out the door into her eyes, then jumped to her feet and tried to run away. Aldaris gripped her shoulder, preventing her from going anywhere.

When Zeratul came to his body and stood, brushing sand off his robe, he looked down at her. _I wish you would trust me, _he said sadly.

"It's not that I don't trust you," she replied, still not meeting his eyes. "I just can't tell you." Her mind mocked her, and she could imagine the Xarral-figure yelling angrily at her.

Silence. _Very well, _Zeratul said finally, admitting defeat. He turned away.

_That is it?_ Aldaris snapped, tightening his hold. Azalel's bones creaked. _We received no answers from this waif._

_I know, _Zeratul said. _Let her go._

_What?_

_Release her!_

Aldaris did with a furious glance at Azalel, who gave him an apologetic look. Learning about Aldaris in school, she found that she pitied him. He was only trying to protect those in his care, even though his methods were rough, and he ended up being betrayed by the ones he despised and distrusted most. So deep was her compassion that she ran after the Judicator when he stalked away, and touched his arm. When he whirled to glare at her she said, "I'm sorry."

The glare changed to a furious glower. _If you were sorry, Terran, you would tell us all you know. I know you are hiding important things._

"I'm _sorry,_" she cried again. "I _can't_!"

He snorted and continued his journey. She ran after him.

_What! _ Aldaris snapped, stopping once more.

"Why don't you trust anyone?"

He jerked his head and began to walk again, robes swaying, at a near run and she pounded after him, each breath searing her barely-healed ribs and the deep slash over them.

_Why are you following me? _Aldaris yelled, this time not stopping but increasing his stride. The yell hurt her head.

"I want you to answer the question!"

_What does it matter to you?_

"I want to know."

_Well I want to know where you came from, how you got here, and what your real name is, _he replied, but he had slowed slightly, almost without noticing it.

So he had noticed she was lying. "I _can't _tell you that, as I have said about six times over. But I'm not just talking about me. Everyone's trying to help you, but you just don't see it until the last minute!"

_I know who my allies are._

"Dammit, no you don't!" Every breath now felt like a psi-blade was jabbing again and again into her ribs. "You've never trusted the Dark Templar who, for millennia, have protected Aiur and have never held a grudge against their brethren. Even now you don't trust them, though they have taken in the Khalai survivors without hesitation. You despise the Terrans for being mere animals, though James Raynor has done as much as he could for your race."

Aldaris entered a warrior's gateway and strode along the enormous glowing hallways. Dark Templar, Zealots, Dragoons and High Templar passed them as they stepped from the gateway itself in the middle of the building. Here they had to walk a little slower in order to thread themselves through the steady stream of warriors, but it was still fast enough to make Azalel gasp. But she wouldn't complain. She wanted him to answer.

Finally Aldaris paused to gaze down from a balcony into the workings of the gateway, where Protoss were scurrying around like insects. _I have been betrayed by many people who I have trusted, _he said abruptly. _My parents, for instance. They were never very interested in raising children. And Tassadar—_

"But Tassadar was _helping_."

He was about to snap at her again but held himself in, fighting for patience. He began to walk again. _Yes. He was, he did, and he is a great warrior; a true son of Aiur. But it still feels like a betrayal to me._

"Why?" her chest had begun to relax but as soon as they started moving the muscles began to bunch again, and they started to throb.

He shook his head and looked away. It tore her heart to see the proud Protoss bared open like this. And the way he died, betrayed again…

"Judicator?"

His head tilted slightly towards her, indicating to her he was listening.

"I… people like you…" pain throbbed in her chest and she gasped. Judicator Aldaris stared down at her, a slight frown forming between his brows. "They really do. And…" It seemed as if the air had suddenly stopped coming through to her lungs. Aldaris jerked to a sudden halt. "And… they would do anything to help you." Now her head hurt, throbbing with the lack of oxygen. She gasped for air.

_Take deep, steady breaths, _Aldaris advised. _You are hyperventilating._

"Gee… you… think?" She flashed a faint smile at him. "Sorry…"

_High Templar Varil!_

Suddenly a hand seemed to make its way through her chest into her lungs and opened, expanding them. Air flooded through her windpipe. She went dizzy with the oxygen and staggered to the side, where Aldaris made a sturdy wall to hang on to. He stepped back, seemed to change his mind, and stayed where he was.

Azalel looked around. A female High Templar stood there, kind eyes watching her as her large hand rested on Azalel's back. "Oh," she said weakly. "Thanks."

She bowed slightly and departed.

Aldaris did not try to push her away, but waited, a stiff, proud support, until she was strong enough to stand on her own. _The Healer is demanding that you return to him. He is quite adamant about it._

"Yeah," she said. "Yeah, I think I'll obey him… for once…"

A small smile flashed across the Judicator's face. It was gone in an instant, but it had definitely been there. She offered one of her own, turned, and began to walk slowly away. Then she stopped and turned. "Judicator?"

He looked at her.

"Kerrigan controls the Matriarch," she said, and fled.

She mentally berated herself as she limped back to the Nexus. She had just _changed history._ What had she been thinking? But she had to help him, and—

Wait a minute. Hadn't she learned in school that Aldaris had, for some reason, known that Kerrigan was taking over the Matriarch and making her tell the Dark Templar to do things they wouldn't normally have done? She had always wondered why he had known; indeed, so had hundreds of scholars such as Zeratul had wondered.

What if _she _was the reason why he knew?

This timeline stuff was really getting to her…

By the time she reached her Healer, she was thoroughly exhausted and gladly fell into bed when the Healer wordlessly pointed to it. He did not rebuke her; he did not need to say anything. The moment her head touched the pillow she was fast asleep.

She spent her nights in the cottage, talking to the Xarral-figure or just reading. Since she had read much at home, in the back of her mind she had all the stories. And since the cottage stored everything in her mind, she could read whatever she read before. During the day she wandered, like a ghost—the irony of which did not escape her—through the camp. The Protoss reserved a type of astonishment for her, being able to wield a psi-blade. They were perfectly willing to be friendly and talk with her, but did not initiate said conversations with her, instead examining her with a kind of bemusement kept for a master watching his or her dog.

The Dark Templar themselves seemed to be at a standstill determining what was to be done with her; should they allow her to keep the Khaydarin crystal and the psi-blade, or should they take them away? Some wanted to study her and her ability to tap into it—only children of the Xel'Naga were supposed to be able to manipulate one, and Terrans were certainly not their creation—were they?

Azalel couldn't care less. She found herself spending most of her time perched on top of a building, contemplating and meditating. She participated in the battles as they occurred, one of them a huge fight which they barely beat back and in which she received several more horrible scars. As each one occurred she grew less and less squeamish about war and killing. Slaughtering the Zerg didn't even touch her morality standards—they were evil, after all; bent on destroying all life. But the prospect itself unnerved her—she lived in a time of peace, and now she waited with baited breath for the next warning signal? Armies were sent periodically over the deep chasm to fight the Zerg, of course, but she was never called upon to go. She heard that the Zerg were being pushed back, and that one of the Cerebrates controlling them had been destroyed by the Dark Templar, but the other Cerebrate had taken control of the wayward brood in perfect synchrony.


	12. Xarral's Return

After a while of learning swordsmanship on her own, a younger Dark Templar with the purple scales of the Furinax tribe came forward and offered to teach her. She accepted gratefully, and soon was faster and deadlier than she ever was before. She was never able to defeat a Protoss, of course, as they were naturally quicker and more powerful than any well-trained Terran, but her fighting style improved. She was curious as to why he would suddenly come forward, and one day asked him.

_I was of the Furinax tribe, _he said, unnecessarily. _My own family disowned me because I wanted to fight instead of build. I know how it is to stand by and watch without any experience, and want to fight._

She smiled. "Thank you."

He bowed. _You're welcome. Shall we begin?_

A few days later Azalel was roused out of a sound sleep by a female Khalai worker. Pulling one lead-heavy eye open, she muttered, "Huh? Whattime izzit?"

_After midnight, _the Protoss said. _You must go to the Nexus immediately._

With a groan she pushed herself up on her elbows. "Why?" She stumbled out of bed and pulled on a robe, following the Khalai. Her feet slapped on the cold metal floor.

_Someone has appeared from the desert, the same way you did. _The Protoss glanced back and added, with a gesture of good humor, _Minus the scars and wounds you emerged with._

"Oh, thanks." She rubbed her eyes, still not getting it. "But why do they want me there?"

_The newcomer asked to see you._

"Okay." When they reached the Nexus—it would have been pitch-black out if it weren't for the strangely glowing structures and the two moons—she began to wake up. Wait a minute. Someone came through the same warp gate she did?

The Khalai waved her into a large round room before hurrying to do her own business, and Azalel entered. The first thing she saw was a ring of Dark Templar and a few Judicators. Executor Artanis was there too; he had arrived a few days previously.

Judicator Aldaris saw her first, and gestured quietly for her to come closer, to which she obeyed with a questioning look. The others turned to look at her, and as their heads changed direction she saw him through the crowd.

She stopped, her mouth dropping open.

_Azalel, _her father said, stepping towards her, arms opening.

Suddenly she was running towards him, the other Protoss forgotten—"Father! Fatheeeeeeeeer!"

And then she was safe, safe, safe in his arms as he pulled her close, stroking the small of her back. _My daughter, _the old High Templar murmured, enveloping her in his cloak so that her smaller frame was lost in the sea of his love.

"FatherIthoughtIwouldbestuckhereforeverandyouweren'thereandIlearnedhowtomakeapsiblade-becauseIhadtofightZergbecausetheyattackedandIusedyourcrystalI'msorryIknowyouhateitwhenItouchyourstuffbutIhadtoand_I knew you would come_." And she buried her head into his shoulder, happy tears cascading down her face. He held her, and stroked her, so that she relaxed and lay trembling in his grip.

When she looked up they were mostly alone in the chamber; only Zeratul and Aldaris stood there; the rest had gone. _I take it you know him, _the Prelate said dryly.

Azalel laughed hoarsely, nodding and leaning against Xarral.

_Is this your Protoss "friend?"_

Xarral glanced down at her, brow arching. She shrugged and went red. "He's my father," she said simply. She looked up at him. "I don't suppose there's any way to get home."

_The technicians are working on it, _he said. _I just didn't want to leave you here alone. Did you meet your family?_

She bit her lip and looked away.

_Ah. We will speak of that later._ He turned to the Judicator and the Prelate. _I thank you for reuniting me with my daughter._ He bowed low to them, one arm still around Azalel. His aged body creaked slightly as he did so, and his eyes were tired. Azalel suddenly realized that she had never asked him how old he was.

"You should rest," she said worriedly.

_Are you playing nursemaid again?_ Xarral asked, blinking down at her with amusement. She grinned and gently punched him in the ribs.

_This is sacrilege, _Aldaris muttered.

Xarral pulled himself up to his full height and glared at him, pulling his daughter close. After a moment Aldaris looked away. Zeratul bowed. _You are entirely welcome, _he said warmly and glanced at Azalel, who gave an apologetic smile. _You,_ he added. _Things become clearer now._

"I suppose," she replied. "I'm sorry I couldn't tell you. There are many things I cannot tell you, still."

_I understand._

Azalel turned to Aldaris and tilted her head questioningly. He glared at her, then let out a sigh and nodded. She beamed at him.

_Now, _Xarral said in a world-weary tone, _I believe I will rest. We have a lot to discuss tomorrow, child._ His hand traced the bracer over her wrist.

So he'd noticed.

_Of course I have. Come._

_I hope you know the way back to your sleeping quarters, _Zeratul said, to which Azalel nodded. _Your father may sleep in the one to the right of yours._

"Thank you." Father and daughter moved away, heading to their waiting beds.

_I believe we have found a way to pinpoint their time and location, _a technician said, leaning over a softly glowing console. His fingers moved smoothly over the touch-keys, receiving and transmitting information.

_Can you send a message?_ Zeratul asked.

"I think we can," said a Terran. "It's the same principle as if we were sending a message over a normal connection; once we have the time and location it's easy."

_But the gate must be open._

"Yes."

_When will the gate open in their time?_

_Three months after High Templar Xarral went through. It will stay open where and when Tolar emerged, and we can keep it open for as long as we want._

_Good. Tell Tolar this in the message to him. Also tell him that he will find Azalel almost twenty-four miles to the south in a base camp set upon a plateau. There are many Zerg about as well._

_Yes, sir._

"Sir, not to be discourteous, but how do you know?"

Zeratul turned away and gazed off into the distance. _I was there._


	13. Father, Before and After

The next morning was just as hot and sunny as the last, and Azalel woke up smiling. Her smile faded. Here she was, in her bed at Shakuras. Was last night a mere dream? Quickly she got up and dressed. She would know in a moment.

Trotting out into the hallway, she knocked tentatively on the door to the adjacent quarters and waited. A moment passed, and her heart sank—but then the door opened and there stood her father, fully rested and the psionic waves around him roiling like they usually did, dressed in only his elaborate loincloth.

Azalel was just as happy to see him as she was the other night. She threw herself into his arms again, laughing. "Oh, Father! I thought it was just a dream!"

_Indeed, _he said, amused, holding her once more. _And you would dream of me?_

"Every night," she said seriously as they went into his quarters. "I dream we're in our house and you're there—well, it's a figure of what I know of you. Except for it's not a dream, Father, it's real. Your figure told me it's a construct of my psi; something the Protoss don't need to have because you're completely comfortable there."

_Perhaps it was a mistake giving you this, _Xarral mused, touching the wire-wrapped Khaydarin crystal. He traced the wires to the bracer. _Show me a psi-blade._

She straightened her arm and concentrated; nowadays it did not require any special strength or focus. The glowing blue sword with flecks of gold sprang from her wrist, standing a good two feet past her hand. Xarral delicately picked up her arm, holding a hand over the blade. _Intriguing, _he said. _It is mostly High Templar energy, but it is mixed with your own thoughts and power, thus the lacing gold._

"Oh, so that's what it is. I wondered."

_Yes. _He waved a hand. _Deactivate it._ She did. _Now, I want you to go to this place you told me of. Can you do that awake?_

"Of course."

_Do it._ He held her hand. _Hold onto me._

Obediently she sank deep into her mind, stepping over the threshold of their home and pulling her father with her.

Automatically Xarral shut the door behind him, his eyes roving over the living room. The Xarral-figure stood and bowed as his eyes came to rest on it. _En Taro Adun, namesake, _it said warmly.

_En Taro Adun, _Xarral replied. He glanced at Azalel, who shrugged and grinned, then searched the house. Everything was as they had left it, to his surprise; every little detail was perfect. _This is remarkable._

"Thanks."

_It does make sense. The first lesson of the Khala is to distance one's mind from the outside world so one could observe without caught in it, especially when fighting. There, there is an inner core of our being where we manipulate and organize our power._ His figure glanced up, absorbing the new information.

"Oh. So this is my 'inner core'?"

_Yes._

"Neat."

Xarral chuckled, then became serious. _Tell me of your parents. What happened?_

She told him, her walls echoing her sentiments and showing her memories. Xarral did not so much listen to the story as take part of it: the scenery changed with every narrative word, and when she was done, he was silent for a long moment. _That is unfortunate, _he said finally.

Azalel hung her head. "I'm sorry, Father."

_No, it is nothing you have done. I was referring to the Terrans._ He reached over and placed a hand on her head, gently massaging her skull. Even in the dreamlike house it felt wonderful. She leaned against him, eyes closing. This was where she belonged. "Father?"

_Yes, my daughter._

"I love you. I'm so happy you're here."

_I love you, _Xarral replied, his thoughts cascading her with a tidal wave of the emotion. His arms tightened around her as he continued to massage her scalp. They stayed that way for a long time.

At the same time both of their heads snapped up, listening. A warning had gone out; almost musical and ringing through Azalel's mind and thus the house. Both knew what it was: the Zerg were attacking. They separated immediately and, on mutual consent, leapt out of the door.

Back in Xarral's quarters Xarral dressed quickly, throwing on his High Templar robe. He looked down at Azalel. _A battle, _he said, as if testing what her reaction might be.

"Let them come," she replied, hands curling into fists. "Let them _come_."

_I want you to stay here._

"Out of the question," she said flatly. "I've had my share of battles, too, and I'm _not _sitting this one out just because you showed up. If you make me stay here I'll just join when you're not paying attention." She glared at him, acutely aware that this was the first time she had ever contradicted him.

Xarral stooped to stare at her and she stared determinedly back. Finally he straightened and murmured, _My daughter. You have grown up._ Then he turned and raced out of the quarters, Azalel hot on his heels.

Not being a Protoss, Azalel could not keep up with the naturally quick aliens. She was one of the last to arrive, though she was before the Reavers, she noticed with a certain wry relief. Zealots were first, being that they were the mass of the army, and Dragoons were right behind them. Dark Templar arrived with the Zealots and High Templar were placed strategically around the massing Zerg to catch as many as possible in their deadly psionic storms.

The Judicators almost did not allow Xarral to partake in the battle, as he was almost as old as the Matriarch herself. But, ignoring them, and with the support of the Dark Templar he fought his way to a summit in order to watch and wait.

His eyes searched for Azalel. She stood out like a sore thumb in the midst of the battle, her small body moving sinuously in with the Zealots and invisible Dark Templar. She dodged a spine blast from a Hydralisk, then gutted it as a Zealot distracted it by leaping onto its back. Girl and Protoss stood back-to-back, killing the circling Zerglings, then leapt apart when a Mutalisk spit deadly acid at them. No words were exchanged, no glances crossed, but they acted as if they knew the action and practiced it hundreds of times over.

Xarral felt pride swell his chest; at the same time, relief. She acted as a true warrior would; for that he was delighted—and she wouldn't stupidly get herself killed. He didn't have to watch her every second. It didn't mean he would not watch her, just not all the time.

He turned to the battle at hand. It was indeed a fine force, but the army of Protoss was larger and fiercer. Plus, they were fighting to save their second homeland, their first one destroyed by these same Zerg.

Raising his hands, he directed his psi at a Dragoon, creating two identical clones that glowed blue in his sight, but no one else's. The built-up psionic power in his mind left a feeling of respite from all the stored energy he kept hidden for almost two centuries.

But he needed to release more. More! The rest of his power begged to be freed. It throbbed in his mind, burning with his adrenaline and his passion of battle. A Guardian swept by, intent on destroying a few pylons, and he lifted an arm, the psi-blade sweeping out from his wrist like a sword. It tore the Guardian from head to tail, showering him with blood and ichor. A Hydralisk reared up to his right, and he stabbed it in its heart. Two Zerglings ran by, and he crushed their skulls. He created at least twenty-six copies of other Protoss, and was beginning to feel drained.

Glancing up, he saw that the Zerg were massing just beyond a cliff. He looked around—he was the only one close enough to unleash the pride of the High Templar. Reaching for his pendant, he panicked when he realized it wasn't there—then remembered that he had given it to his daughter.

There was a feather-soft touch on his arm, and he whirled, blade at the ready, to cut the Zerg in half. But it was Azalel, who, expecting this reaction, ducked just in time. Xarral froze.

_Do not do that again, _he snapped, horrified at what he might have done. But Azalel didn't answer; she just yanked the crystal away from the bracer cords, which fell limp, and handed it to him. She had read his mind; quite literally: such was the bond between them. She then reached up to kiss his cheek, then ran down to join the battle once again, retreating to the safety of a Protoss building as she no longer had the power to a psi-blade. He saw her pick up a few tools and begin to help the Khalai fix a psi disruptor.

She was really Protoss under all of that Terran physicality. Her courage and strength shone through her eyes; her passion for life burned in her heart. She really was an aza lel.

Clutching the stone in his hand, Xarral gazed across the plain to the enormous mass of Zerg, calling power from its depths. He felt it burn through his body, calling that ancient fire in his blood, throbbing to the pulse of his spirit. He let it build to monumental levels until his head pounded and his body vibrated with power. Sensing the build Protoss scattered the area, leaping away from the savage massing aliens, and Azalel, feeling it along with them, gazed up to the summit where her father was standing. "Oh, Father, don't please," she whispered, gripping the tool she held until her fingernails bit into her palm. He was too old, too old; he wouldn't survive it!

_Azalel, _the Khalai said. She turned back to the task at hand, flinging the useless bracer cords over her shoulder. Her gaze met his own; he gripped her shoulder. _The High Templar will be all right._

She bit her lip and nodded, bending over the jammed firing mechanism just as Xarral released the whirlwind of power.

It wasn't the first time she had seen a psionic storm, but she would never forget this one. Xarral had directed the might of it at the mass groupings of Zerg near a random cliff, where they were regrouping. Nearly three hundred creatures screamed as they died their carapaces and flesh burning with the physical brunt of the psychic force. As the pressure built their blood vessels burst; they screamed as they died, exploding with audible crunching noises. Strips of flesh and ivory bones littered the ground for hundreds of square feet, soaking slowly into the ground.

Heartened, warriors raced to meet the remaining Zerg halfway. They clashed, the Protoss slowly beating the others back.

Azalel should have been delighted. But she stared, as the small figure up upon the summit swayed dangerously near the edge. Dropping her tools, she bolted for the cliff.

A young High Templar, battle-hardened already, had heard of the girl and the Protoss she had called "Father." The old one was about to fall, and there was a Zergling climbing the cliff with its strong claws. A Terran also climbed, though on the gentler side. He ran for them too, hoping to help both of them.

Dazed and nearly stripped of his powers, the old High Templar closed his eyes, taking deep, slow breaths.

Everything had fallen into place. He had been here before. He remembered now. He stood on this very summit five hundred eleven years ago, gazing down at a young Terran female bent over an old High Templar warrior.

A sharp chittering sounded to his left. He glanced over, coming face-to-face with a Zergling. He was too weak to fight even the small creature, and the Overmind knew it. He knew it too.

As if in slow motion, the Zergling pulled back its spine claws and snapped them forward.

Azalel screamed as both back claws punctured Xarral's chest, emerging on the other side, then snapped back again to cut him once more. By that time she had reached them, and viciously kicked the Zergling, which stumbled back a few feet. Then it shook its head and lunged at the High Templar. Azalel leapt in front of him, throwing up her arms. The Zergling crashed into her, who in turn staggered into Xarral, who was already unbalanced. They all began to fall.

Strong arms wrapped around her, protecting her from the cliff walls as they plummeted towards the ground. They slammed, rolled, and freefell all the way down—and crashed into the earth. The air was knocked out of her, but all in all she was unhurt. Shaking her dazed skull to clear it, she slowly sat up.

She was sitting on a bloody Protoss. Quickly she rolled off and stared at the broken body of her father in a stunned trance. "Father," she whispered.

Then she snapped out of it, and lunged to his side. "Father, Father!" she cried, shaking him. "Father wake up oh please wake up wake up wake up wake up!"

A rattled breath eased out of him, and one glowing eye opened—the other had a thin rock four inches long sticking out of it. _Azalel, _he said thickly, his mind-voice slow and confused.

"Father!"

_It is time for me to go…_

"No! Please!"

_Azalel…_

"No!" She grabbed his head, one hand on either side of his face. "Father! Don't leave me alone!" She levered his face up so he stared at her. Her voice sank to a whisper. "Not again. Don't leave me alone again. Please. I can't stand it." Tears ran down her face but she didn't notice. "I couldn't stand it. I can't. Please don't…"

_My beautiful daughter. _His voice strengthened slightly, and the unbroken arm reached up to stroke her cheek. _My aza lel. Do not make this harder. It is time for me to go._

"No," she begged.

_Look… look there…_ he turned his eyes upward; she followed his gaze and saw a High Templar standing there on the summit they had just fallen off of. _Do you… see?_

"Yes…"

_In five hundred years… that man will adopt a young Terran girl as his daughter… and raise her as his own._ Azalel's mouth opened and she looked at her father. _I remember now… I remember standing there… on that cliff… five hundred eleven years and thirty seconds ago._ He laughed, a painful sound. _This is how I wish to die, my daughter. As a warrior. As a Templar._

"But this isn't how _I _want you to die!"

…_I admit… there is another reason…_ a shudder went through his body and his voice strained even more. She sensed he was only a few seconds from death. _Another reason… more selfish than the first. I didn't want to see you die… I didn't want to see you grow up and die before me. A parent should never have to… bury his child…_

Something pressed into her palm. Azalel looked down and saw he was placing the crystal into her hand. Dimly she closed her fingers around it. _Take this, my Terran Templar._

No, she wanted to scream again; _No!_

_Take her away, _Xarral begged to someone, and she felt hands grab her, pulling her away. Power had begun to build again, and his eyes began to glow violently blue.

_Come, Terran Azalel, _said a voice in her mind, but it was her father, her father, and she fought with all the remaining strength she had in her bruised body. The Zealot behind her turned her away, twisting so that his body was between her and the sight of the mangled Protoss.

There was a flash of blue flame, lighting up the golden armor of the Zealot and Azalel cried out. The Zealot's grip slipped and she ran around him—and there was nothing, nothing save a scorch mark on the ground—her father was gone. Her father was _gone._

Above them, a young High Templar watched.


	14. Home and Healing

The Zealot grabbed her again, pulling her towards the Protoss structures. She no longer struggled but allowed herself to be dragged, sinking quickly into her inner mind as she was handed off to the Khalai she had been working with.

Around her, the Zerg were being mopped up. She didn't care. All that mattered was that her father was gone. Xarral, her love, her friend, her father, her mentor, her teacher. Gone. Dead. Dead, dead, dead, dead… she curled up in the deepest, darkest corner of her mind, sobbing. But her body did nothing; she was walked to a room and sat down, and then the Khalai ran off back to his duties. Her body sat there, and her mind built walls around walls around walls around a maze so no one would touch her, no one would come near her.

Zeratul came over after the battle ended but this time he could not bring her back. Judicator Aldaris came much later and crouched in front of her and told her that the Zerg Cerebrates were destroyed; Kerrigan had showed up and they were bringing her back to the Citadel. Was she controlling the Matriarch now?

That question pulled her out of her reverie a little bit, and she actually saw the Protoss in front of her. She nodded slightly, and Aldaris swept away with a swirl of his cloak. Azalel's head dropped again and her mind dove into the recess once more.

A Healer came by and brought her to a bath; her hands went through the movements of washing herself but she did not feel it; did not think of washing. She was woken a little by the chill of ice-cold water dumped over her head, but quickly went back. Her minor wounds were repaired, and the Healer, who was adept at mind-healing as well, called her back—but only for a few seconds. Azalel's eyes focused on the Healer's, and she whispered "Father" before slipping under again.

After two weeks of intense pulling and teasing her out, she was able to stay in her body for a time without falling back. But something inside of her had broken; she did not cry and she did not vent. Inside her mind her safe place was not the cottage anymore; it had grown enormous spines from its walls and weeds had crept up the sides. The normally smooth metal walls were crumbling stone and black mold. Pools of water formed on the floor and water dripped from the walls and ceiling. It was a dungeon.

After three weeks someone came into her room. Seeing her thin body—she had lost considerable weight in those three weeks—curled up at the head of her bed, her breathing shallow, mind distant, that someone picked her up and carried her away. There was a brief argument from the Healer, and a familiar voice stated firmly that there was no way she was staying here. Then hot burning air met her face, and she opened her eyes.

"Tolar?" she asked.

_Be still, Azalel, _he said, his voice gentle. _You are going home._

"Tolar," she said brokenly, "Tolar… Father… my Father… he's, he's…"

_I know, _he said, as helpless as she. _I know. I'm sorry, Azalel. I'm so sorry._

"Are we walking?"

He looked at her, worried. _Yes, we are._

"No… I mean… are we walking there?"

_No. I have found a willing Scout; he will take us to the gate site._

"I don't want to go through it."

_We are going home._

"No, we're not; we're going to go through and end up at the wrong end… I want to go _home_…"

_Hush, var'ha. Hush._

Var'ha? Wasn't that Protoss for "beloved?" Father had called her that sometimes… she sank into oblivion as Tolar carried her onto a ship and they lifted off…

She awoke again when the heat hit her as they stepped outside; heat and blinding light made her stir in Tolar's lean but muscular arms. "Tolar?" And then the familiar hum hit her ears and she began to struggle. "Tolar—no! Don't go in!" She squirmed as he neared the warp gate. "Don't!"

He held her tighter, restricting her movement. _Stop, Azalel! There is nothing to be afraid of!_

"We'll end up—"

_Home, var'ha. We're going home._

"No Tol—" he stepped into the opening and the crushing nonexistent weight of the doorway suffocated the rest of the sentence. She cried out—going through was uncomfortable when you were well and hell when you were not ready for it, which she certainly wasn't. Once more they sped through space and time, the overwhelming blinding light smothering her choked cries and Tolar's soothing murmurs.

Then they were through and Azalel squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to see the place that they had come out of.

_Azalel, look. Open your eyes and look around._

No… Azalel turned away from the open air, pressing her face into Tolar's juvenile robe.

She felt another mind touch hers—someone older, and vaster… and more powerful… _Child, look around you._

Her eyes opened as if on her own volition and she turned, gazing at the trees and the cobblestone and the buildings of a blending of both Protoss and Terran design. She felt her eyes widen until they were enormous saucers, and her hand gripped Tolar's wrist. "Home…?"

_Yes, Azalel, we are home._

"Can't… we're home…" and she shook her head slightly, shock permeating her senses. Then she turned and looked at the crowd, which had thinned out slightly. "Why are they still here?" Tolar looked down at her in confusion.

_You were only gone a few days. When they found out you were coming back, they returned as well to speak with you._

She laughed, a sudden, hoarse, bitter sound that those around her flinched back upon hearing it. "A few days… or six months? Which one? Are you _sure _it has been a few days, or are you lying? For I distinctly remember sleeping and waking at least two hundred days… or is that one hundred eighty? It certainly hasn't been a few days. It _certainly _hasn't been a few days."

_Azalel, Azalel!_ Tolar cried, stiffening in horrified alarm. _What is wrong with you?_

_Give her to me, _Patriarch Zeratul demanded, reaching out. After a moment's hesitation Tolar allowed her to slide into his arms. _Be calm, _he added, seeing that Tolar was in complete shock. _The time that we found her she has been at Shakuras for six months._ He turned to the crowd._ Please, leave. There has been much damage to this girl._

People immediately began to disperse, thinning out as if he had the power to control all of them. The only ones left, finally, were the technicians and the rest of Azalel's friends, who had begun to thread their way through to reach her. Worry radiated from them, and George, being smallest, got there first. "Please, Patriarch," he said, "will she be all right?"

_That will be entirely up to her, _Zeratul replied quietly. He turned and strode quickly away, Z'lirra, Zyram, Tolar and George in his wake. Other Dark Templar they hadn't even been aware of formed ranks around them, creating an arrowhead to pierce through the crowd and keep an eye on Azalel, who had lapsed into her strange, distant silence again. Everyone fell silent, too, until the only sound was their feet marching on the cobblestone of the street. The coldness and stillness of the Dark Templar, even when moving, was terrifying. They seemed to float above the ground, their cloaks swirling behind them as if of living things, and they did not look anywhere but straight in front of them as they walked. The little gang kept looking at Tolar, who gestured that they should simply follow and do as they said. That established, they too became hushed.

Zeratul made a beeline for the nearest infirmary, and the other Dark Templar followed as if they were connected to his mind—and, of course, they were. As soon as they were inside a Protoss Healer walked them to a room, and Zeratul put the drained Azalel onto the bed. He stepped back and looked at the group for the first time. _It may be better if you left, _he said.

_One of us must stay, _Zyram replied firmly.

_That is true, _his twin confirmed.

"Tolar, you stay," George said. "You're the closest to her, and you're the one she'll be calling for when she…" he looked at her. "… when she wakes up." Which felt strange to say, because she _was _awake, if only technically. Her eyes were open, and she stared off into space, but there was very little recognition or acknowledgement of what was going on around her.

_Agreed, _Tolar said, and the other three exited. Z'lirra paused at the door, but Zyram put an arm about her shoulders and they walked away. The Dark Templar took up stations around the room and outside in the hall, silent guardians to their beloved Patriarch.

_The trust they have in you is admirable, _Zeratul said absently, laying a hand on Azalel's forehead. _As is the love in your heart for her._

Tolar just looked at the girl he had come to adore. Not so much a girl anymore, but she had grown into a beautiful woman. And "beautiful" to a Protoss meant not the same thing to a Terran, but Tolar did not care. He knew she was beautiful in Terran standards, and that was enough for him. He had come to love her spirit as well as her looks.

Deep in his heart he knew that they would never be compatible—whoever heard of a Protoss with a Terran?—but he still wished, and kept his love a secret. He had, until Zeratul had found out.

_I warn you, _Zeratul said now, looking up from the girl, _you may not like some of the things I do to her to bring her back._

_I understand—though if you hurt her, I—_

_I know. I am simply warning you._ There was the barest of sound, and a Dark Templar was standing just behind Tolar. He understood, though he didn't like it—the warrior would restrain him if necessary.

Zeratul bent over Azalel, pulling her hair out of the way, examining her pale skin and her dull, lifeless eyes. Then he gripped her with both hands on either side of her face and closed his eyes.

Tolar felt him dive into Azalel's mind and sat back to wait.

Azalel was a different story. Physically, she did nothing, though her entire mind shuddered and she screamed internally at the invasion. _Get out!_ She howled;_ Getoutgetoutgetoutgetout!_

Zeratul found himself standing at a metal wall, as smooth as seamless as a Templar's perfect mental barrier. But she was only Terran, and though he had not been able to help her five hundred years ago he had learned much more since then—the quest for knowledge was never-ending. He broke the barrier down, and was faced with another, stronger one. He broke that one down and found another. That took a little longer to break—about twenty seconds more—but it crumbled nevertheless.

Now he was faced with a maze. Spines grew from the sides and floor and ceiling; vines grew between the gaps of the openings that were left. She _really _didn't want to be disturbed, and that fact was the voice echoing from the mental cavern—_Get out!_

It would have been impossible for a Terran, however powerful, to get through the maze. Perhaps a lesser Protoss. But this was Zeratul, Patriarch of the Dark Templar and even older than the last Matriarch had been when she had died. His power was almost unlimited, and he _refused _to play this pathetic game. He cut through the vines and spines and maze, dissolved it with a touch, and headed straight for the cavern that used to be the cottage at the far end.

Azalel was there, huddled against the wall and protected by barbs that reached out for him when he came near. He waved them away and crouched to get a good look at her. Her mental state was just like her body—she was pale, her skin stretched tightly over her bones, and her brown eyes were dull as she stared at him. "What are you doing here?" she whispered, her voice hoarse. "I told you to get out."

_I have come to bring you back, _he said flatly.

"What if I don't want to come back?"

_You will. Do you wish to stay here your entire life, watching the lives of others pass; as they are happy without you?_ He asked. She flinched and he knew he had struck a nerve. _For that is what will happen. When you are old, and wrinkled as Terrans become when they get old, you will watch your friends' children pass you and watch them as they are happy, and you are still stuck in your own misery._

"What does it matter? Father's dead."

_It matters, _he said ruthlessly. _It matters because I have gone through the same. I have watched my friend, brother, and companion Tassadar die. I have seen my other Terran brother, James Raynor, waste away after he killed his once-lover Sarah Kerrigan, _after _she murdered his friend. _I killed my own Matriarch with my bare hands. _There are ones who have suffered more than you, whether you want to see it or not._

"Leave me—"

_Not until you see the truth, _he said, and returned to his own body. Turning, he strode over to an emergency cabinet and opened it. Inside were the tools Healers and Medics used when there was no time to worry about hurting their patient—there were knives there, and prongs, and needles. Zeratul selected a long, whisper-thin knife and came back to Azalel.

_What are you doing? _Tolar yelped, alarmed. Ignoring him, Zeratul brought the knife up and slashed it across Azalel's bare arm. The physical pain awoke her before she could sink back into nothingness, and she stared at the cut in confusion. Bright red blood welled up and dripped down her arm.

_Come back, Azalel, _the Patriarch said in a monotone.

She shook her head—a tiny movement, but he saw it. He slashed her again, a little higher than the first cut, and she jumped.

_Stop, _Tolar cried, leaping forward. The Dark Templar behind him grasped him by the shoulders and held him fast no matter how much he struggled.

Zeratul cut her once more, this time across her other arm. Azalel whimpered, squirming away from the threatening surgical knife. Zeratul followed her and slashed her a fourth time on her cheek bone much deeper than the first three—deep enough to scrape her bone. Tolar doubled his efforts, not caring that this was precisely what Zeratul had meant. Azalel let out a cry and lifted her arms to avoid another cut to the face, tears streaming down her cheeks and mingling with the blood. "Stop it," she cried—"stop it! Leave me alone!"

_Do you see the truth?_

"It's my fault," she wept. "My fault. I made the Salles die, it was my fault, the Ghosts were after them because they knew about the warp gate—and Doran, Doran, my brother, I forced him and my parents to live life as refugees, as renegades, and Father—my Father—_you knew about this!"_

In sudden wild fury she launched herself at the looming Protoss, bringing her hand up and over in an arc—from the bracer over her wrist that Tolar had not noticed before a burning blue and gold spear appeared, growing larger and larger until it stood two feet out, and she was stabbing towards Zeratul; she'd pierce him in the heart—

But Zeratul merely shoved that hand away with his own psi-blade, yellow-green and sucking the light out of everywhere else—Azalel's blade cut into the bed and was trapped by his arm. The rest of her body slammed into him, kicking and punching and screaming and sobbing. "You _knew _this was going to happen, you _knew_ because it had already happened for you! Why didn't you _tell _us? Why? Father would still be alive and I'd be home and _FUCK YOU YOU MISERABLE PROTOSS!"_

Tolar stopped struggling in disbelief of the mad rage she generated—though the bravest of their little gang, she had always possessed a stable, though not entirely gentle, spirit. She was the strongest Terran he knew, which was why he loved her, and here she was whaling away at the _Patriarch _for Adun's sake, howling her despair with blood running down to soak her and his clothes.

Zeratul grabbed her arms. _Child, stop, _he thundered. _I knew this would happen, yes. But do you not understand? It must have happened this way, for it already happened! Had it not meant to be, we would have already known that Kerrigan controlled my Matriarch. And you have answered the question no one ever knew—how did Judicator Aldaris know she was being controlled, _because you told him_! And do you remember the name of your brother, Victoria _Routhe_? Doran Routhe, the scientist who transported the renegades to the planets beyond, where the Protoss watched them grow and learn before the Zerg found them! You have made our future, and our present, possible to live in!_

Azalel had stopped screaming and was lying, gasping and sobbing, in the Patriarch's arms. His next words were soft and gentle. _You are, and have been, the catalyst for so many things, _he murmured to her, holding her as she cried. _Do you understand now, child?_

Slowly she nodded against his cloak, but she couldn't stop weeping. "I still wish," she gasped, "that it had never happened."

_I know, _he said heavily. _Neither do I. I wish none of it had to happen. I wish my friends and I had defeated the Overmind, and the Hybrids, all on our own. But it has not happened, child, and we must make do with what we have now._ He held her for a long time, until her sobs stopped shaking her body. Then he pulled away slightly and helped her stand.

She swayed dangerously, gripping the bed, and Tolar immediately moved to assist her, pulling away from the other who held him. Azalel was a mess—blood and tears caked her face and her front, and her limbs trembled. Her brown hair, so alien and so beautiful and so _short_ as Tolar liked to tease her, was matted and tattered. It looked like every time it got long enough to cut it she had—with a psi-blade. Her eyes were huge and dull with pain, both physical and mental. _Come, Azalel, _he said. _We will tend to your wounds and clean you up. _He turned to glare at the Patriarch.

_I did tell you that you would not like some of the things that I did, _Zeratul said quietly. He helped Tolar bring her to a wash-basin and helped wipe the dirt, sweat, tears, and blood off as much as they could. They helped her strip—Tolar didn't care _how _much she complained; she was not going to stay in that filthy rag any longer, and he didn't care about seeing her naked. Then he gently bandaged her wounds and lifted her up into bed. But she refused to go to sleep until Tolar's hand was captured in her own, clutching at him, afraid he would leave.

_Hold her often, _the Patriarch told him, his voice a bare murmur in the young Protoss' mind. _She feels abandoned._

_I will,_ Tolar replied._ You do not need to tell me. I think I will never let her out of my sight again. _He smiled sadly as the Patriarch chuckled a little. _Patriarch, _he added suddenly, as Zeratul prepared to leave, _has she decided to live?_

Zeratul turned and gazed at him searchingly. Then he gave an abrupt nod.

_I believe she has, _he said, and left.


	15. Epilogue The Growing Threat

It took a week for Azalel to gain enough strength to walk unaided, and even then her friends refused to leave her side. They became a regular sight; the Terran girl walking in a circle of three Protoss and one other Terran. The outside air worked wonders for her; her body was apparently relieved that it was no longer in the hot, burning sun of Shakuras and gained weight in fat—on the vicious planet she had lost all body fat to the vigorous workouts and the eating of tasteless, vitamin-enriched food.

The warp gate itself was shut down and dismantled, having been declared much too dangerous to be used. And after days of study none of the scientists ever found what had changed the frequency of the warp gate, leading to times and places unknown. Which did not comfort anyone in the slightest. Another one was to be built; using none of the materials the other had been, in fear that any of the pieces might have caused the incident.

After she was released by the Healers, Azalel faced a new problem: her home. With her father gone, she no longer saw the point of living in their little cottage. It pained her to see it so empty, but she had nowhere else to go.

"You could live with me," George offered one day as they stood and gazed across the small meadow at the graceful metal structure. "My parents adore you. And you said it yourself —High Templar Xarral was going to give you to them anyway, so we're practically brother and sister."

"Practically. Not completely," Azalel replied softly. She rubbed her wrist. She had refused to allow the Healers to remove her psi-blade, a decision that had probably enraged the Judicators of the Conclave (for they undoubtedly knew). Judicator Lesin had tried to tell her that Terrans were not allowed to handle a Khaydarin crystal, but she replied that a Protoss High Templar had given it to her, and she would never take it off.

_Does it still pain you?_ Z'lirra asked, having noticed.

"Sometimes."

_You should have let them at least fix it, _Zyram said reprovingly, and Tolar agreed.

"If I allowed them to take it off I would never see it again."

"She's got a point," George said airily. "Protoss are so stuck-up."

To which Z'lirra and Zyram picked him up and tossed him about twenty feet away into a bush. George lunged to his feet and leapt for them, and they ended up doing a wrestling free-for-all.

Tolar reached over and encircled Azalel's waist with one strong arm, pulling her close. She glanced up at him with mild surprise as he brought her a little farther away from the tussling group. "What is it, Tolar?"

_I…_ he hesitated, uncertain what she would say. _I am going into the military service._

She stiffened, trying to pull away from him, but he tightened his grip. "How could you? After—after what you saw in Shakuras—"

_I know. And that helped me make my decision._ He paused, giving the impression of letting out a long breath. _The Hybrids are going to return, Azalel; there is talk of a growing number of disappearing vessels and murdered citizens. And Ulrejaz and his followers are still out there, somewhere, waiting for the perfect time to strike._

"What are you talking about? Ulrejaz's followers probably died out—and Ulrejaz himself is most likely dead…"

_No, Azalel, you know that they are not all gone. Ulrejaz is, as you say, most likely dead, but what of the rest of them? What of the Hybrids? Military service has stepped up in the last few years and I think it's because they know something will come up, is coming up. This age of peace will not last forever._

Tears were forming over Azalel's eyes, and she dashed them angrily away. "I don't want you to die like Father did," she whispered.

_I know. I know._ He hugged her hard. _But I am not leaving until I finish school, and in the meantime… I would be honored if you would join my family, at least until you find a place to live. Maybe even—_he stopped.

"Maybe even what?"

_Maybe you will be able to come with me when I go to Aiur for study._

She hesitated. Though she never wanted to see battle ever again, but… she was closest to Tolar, and if he left… well, she would be alone. He was the closest thing to a boyfriend she ever had, especially since Xarral had chased away all other potential suitors in fatherly jealousy and he was the only one she was allowed to keep around, closer than Zyram, Z'lirra, or George. "What about the Protoss? I visited Aiur once when I was little, but I don't think they'd take too kindly at me _living _there. They're still very protective about their homeworld. Uh… you, too, being a Protoss…"

He laughed. _The Judicators wanted to "keep an eye on you," remember? I don't think they'd disagree. And the Conclave keeps saying that the Terrans are allies, but they do not allow any of them to colonize Aiur. Sooner or later a Terran will live there, and it may as well be you._

She hated to admit it, but Tolar was making several very good points.

_I already have spoken to my parents, _he continued coaxingly. _They think it is a wonderful idea, even the moving-to-Aiur part._

"Tolar…"

_And the art there is incredible. The artists would love to speak to a fellow if alien artiste and see her views on things. Did you go to any of the art houses when you went there last?_

"One. Brikhon's."

_Only Brikhon's? There are so many of them there, and most are better than Brikhon!_

"Oh, Tolar, I don't know if I'm ready to leave here just yet. This is my home."

_It is mine, too, and I will always return here._ Tolar pressed her closer, hunched over so he could gaze beseechingly into her eyes with his own gemfire ones. _But you and Aiur have something in common, you know._

"I… what?"

_You are both beautiful. Stunningly beautiful._ He began to stroke her hair, tracing the lines of her scars and caressing her face.

She pushed back on his chest, red with embarrassment and anger. "Cut it _out_. I'm not beautiful, I'm hideously scarred and—"

_No!_ Tolar said sharply, grabbing her face between both palms. _Do not even _think _that you are ugly! You have a stunning body and a warrior's spirit. You are _beautiful

"I think you two should get a room," called a dry voice. Both turned to look at George, Z'lirra, and Zyram, who were walking towards them. They hadn't heard the conversation—in Tolar's case, it was private, and in Azalel's case they were too far away. But they had seen the body language.

"Seriously," George said as they neared. Grass stained both his and the twins' clothes, and there were several bruises on the Terran's pale face. "Don't you agree, guys?"

_Absolutely, _Z'lirra said mildly. _Why, look at their posturing. It looks as if they are about to throw themselves down and mate, right here and now._

_Ah, Z'lirra my sister,_ Zyram sighed, _you have become corrupted by the Terran's crude sense of humor. Where has my innocent little sibling gone?_

"Little?" George grinned. "Wasn't Z'lirra born three minutes _before _you?"

Azalel gently tugged Tolar's hands away from her waist as they bickered, walking slowly towards the cottage. "I have to pack," she said, her voice a murmur.

Immediately her friends formed their circle around her, falling silent in respect. When they neared the house and Azalel stepped inside, she stopped, biting her lip and trying not to cry as she gazed around the familiar rooms. There was Father's computer-book, still on and paused at where he had marked it, awaiting his return. But he wasn't returning.

It took her four hours to pack everything—even though her friends helped, she lingered and let her gaze sweep over things that were soon to go. Several times she became too weak and had to sit down, and her friends carried out what they were doing at her direction

Nearing the end she leaned against Xarral's bed, biting her lip and trembling. Tolar had been watching her closely, and as soon as she did so he rushed over. _Var'ha, what's wrong?_

Normally she would have pushed him away. But she just stared at him, her deep brown eyes tearing up. "I hurt," she whispered. "I ache."

He knew exactly what she meant and gathered her close. _Z'lirra, Zyram, George, finish up, _he told the rest, who had stopped to crowd around her and comfort her. _I think she needs to be away from this house for a while._ They hurried to do as he said, pushing things into travel containers as Azalel had told them to.

Tolar brought her outside into the darkening dusk, letting her lean on him as she breathed the cool night air. "I'm sorry," she said, "I… those were Father's things in there… he's never going to be there again. Never."

_I'm sorry, _he replied. _Azalel… I'm so sorry._ He pulled her closer, his broad hands stroking her back. It was a very intimate gesture, especially for a Protoss, and if any other Protoss were to see them they would be horrified and break them apart. Ever since a week ago after he brought her home and Zeratul had helped her heal Tolar had been very touchy-feely, holding her close to him for long periods of time as if afraid she would run away. Azalel didn't care—if she closed her eyes she could imagine that it was Xarral, at least for a short time.

"I know you are… thank you," she said softly. After a few minutes she added wearily, "I don't want to be here any more. Tolar, yes, I'll come with you; live with your family. I'll even go to Aiur with you, if they'll let me. If something's coming… then I want to be there with the warriors and help defend our peace."

Tolar continued to hold her. Finally he said, steel behind every word, _They'll accept you if I have to smuggle you in._

She laughed hoarsely.

_Azalel, are you all right?_ Asked Z'lirra's worried mind-voice. The gang had come up behind them without them even noticing; not even Tolar, who stopped rubbing her back and moved away a little, but still held her up with one arm as she turned to face their friends.

She studied them. Her friends; her brothers and sister. They all would help her at a drum beat, comforting her at a second's notice. They would always be there, she knew. Even if they grew apart, all one of them would have to do is ask for help and they would all come. And they would all face this growing threat together.

She smiled. "Yes," she said. "I think I will be."


End file.
